There is nothing more likely to drive a man mad, than the being unable to get rid of the idea of the distinction between right and wrong, and an obstinate, constitutional preference of the true to the agreeable.

Literature, like nobility, runs in the blood.

We learn to curb our will and keep our overt actions within the bounds of humanity, long before we can subdue our sentiments and imaginations to the same mild tone.

The more we do, the more we can do.

We do not see nature with our eyes, but with our understandings and our hearts.

We grow tired of ourselves, much more of other people.

Our repugnance to death increases in proportion to our consciousness of having lived in vain.