Blessed is the man, who having nothing to say, abstains from giving wordy evidence of the fact.
But human experience is usually paradoxical, that means incongruous with the phrases of current talk or even current philosophy.
But that intimacy of mutual embarrassment, in which each feels that the other is feeling something, having once existed, its effect is not to be done away with.
But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.
Conscientious people are apt to see their duty in that which is the most painful course.
Consequences are unpitying.
Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive outside of itself; it only requires opportunity.
Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.
Excessive literary production is a social offense.
The important work of moving the world forward does not wait to be done by perfect men.
No great deed is done by falterers who ask for certainty.
Failure after long perseverance is much grander than never to have a striving good enough to be called a failure.
Falsehood is easy, truth so difficult.
For what is love itself, for the one we love best? An enfolding of immeasurable cares which yet are better than any joys outside our love.