Men's men gentle or simple, they're much of a muchness
I like not only to be loved, but to be told that I am loved the realm of silence is large enough beyond the grave
Our consciousness rarely registers the beginning of a growth within us any more than without us there have been many circulation of the sap before we detect the smallest sign of the bud.
Ignorance is not so damnable as humbug, but when it prescribes pills it may happen to do more harm
One way of getting an idea of our fellow countrymen's miseries is to go and look at their pleasures
Knowledge slowly builds up what Ignorance in an hour pulls down
Ignorance gives one a large range of probabilities
Hear Everything and judge for yourself
It is never to late to be what you might have been
Its never too late to be who you might have been
It is never too late to become what you might have been
. . . it was the last weakness he meant to indulge in and a man never lies with more delicious languor under the influence of a passion than when he has persuaded himself that he shall subdue it to-morrow.
I would not creep along the coast but steer Out in mid-sea, by guidance of the stars.
How lovely the little river is, with its dark changing wavelets It seems to me like a living companion while I wander along the bank, and listen to its low, placid voice . . .
Love has a way of cheating itself consciously, like a child who plays at solitary hide-and-seek it is pleased with assurances that it all the while disbelieves.
. . . vanity is as ill at ease under indifference as tenderness is under a love which it cannot return . . .
. . . what loneliness is more lonely than distrust
There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism.
If a man means to be hard, let him keep in his saddle and speak from that height, above the level of pleading eyes, and with the command of a distant horizon.
. . . his soul was sensitive without being enthusiastic it was too languid to thrill out of self-consciousness into passionate delight it went on fluttering in the swampy ground where it was hatched, thinking of its wings and never flying.
There is something strangely winning to most women in that offer of the firm arm the help is not wanted physically at that moment, but the sense of help, the presence of strength that is outside them and yet theirs, meets a continual want of the imagination.
Imagination is a licensed trespasser it has no fear of dogs, but may climb over walls and peep in at windows with impunity.
She was always trying to be what her husband wished, and never able to repose on his delight in what she was.
Our deeds determine us, as much as we determine our deeds . . .
For there is no despair so absolute as that which comes with the first moments of our first great sorrow, when we have not yet known what it is to have suffered and be healed, to have despaired and to have recovered hope.