If we didn’t live venturously, plucking the wild goat by the beard, and trembling over precipices, we should never be depressed, I’ve no doubt; but already should be faded, fatalistic and aged.

Arrange what pieces come your way.

Books are the mirrors of the soul.

Once conform, once do what other people do because they do it, and a lethargy steals over all the finer nerves and faculties of the soul.

I meant to write about death, only life came breaking in as usual.

Literature is strewn with the wreckage of those who have minded beyond reason the opinion of others.

I would venture to guess that Anon, who wrote so many poems without signing them, was often a woman.

Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.

Those comfortably padded lunatic asylums which are known, euphemistically, as the stately homes of England.

It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.