What loneliness is more lonely than distrust?
The devil tempts us not; 'tis we who tempt him, beckoning his skill with opportunity.
It is never too late to be what you might have been.
It is a mere cowardice to seek safety in negations. No character becomes strong in that way. You will be thrown into the world some day and then every rational satisfaction your nature that you deny n...
There's no work so tirin' as danglin' about an' starin' an' not rightly knowin' what you're goin' to do next; and keepin' your face i' smilin' order like a grocer o' market-day for fear people shouldn...
The progress of the world can certainly never come at all save by the modified action of the individual beings who compose the world.
Rosamund, taken hold of by an emotion stronger than her own--hurried along in a new movement which gave all things some new, awful, undefined aspect--could find no words, but involuntarily she put her...
What do we live for if not to make life less difficult for each other?
It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing while we are still alive. There are certain things we feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger for them.
Each lived in a world of which the other knew nothing.
Bodily haste and exertion usually leave our thoughts very much at the mercy of our feelings and imagination.
Only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love.
Life began with waking up and loving my mother's face.
Let a prejudice be bequeathed, carried in the air, adopted by hearsay, caught in through the eye,–however it may come, these minds will give it a habitation; it is something to assert strongly and bra...
For there is no creature whose inward being is so strong that it is not greatly determined by what lies outside it.
What makes life dreary is want of motive.
Mortals are easily tempted to pinch the life out of their neighbor's buzzing glory, and think that such killing is no murder.
Our deeds still travel with us from afar, and what we have been makes us what we are.
We learn words by rote, but not their meaning; that must be paid for with our life-blood, and printed in the subtle fibres of our nerves.
The memory has as many moods as the temper, and shifts its scenery like a diorama.