A Man Is A Poor Creature Compared

God Is The Poet; Men Are But The Actors. The Great Dramas Of Earth Were Written In Heaven.

Woman Is A Delightful Instrument Of Pleasure, But It Is Necessary To Know Its Trembling Strings, To Study The Position Of Them, The Timid Keyboard, The Fingering So Changeful And Capricious Which Befits It.

The Happier A Man, The More Apt He Is To Tremble. In Hearts Exclusively Tender, Anxiety And Jealousy Are In Exact Proportion To Happiness.

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

We Have Long Struggles With Ourself, Of Which The Outcome Is One Of Our Actions; They Are, As It Were, The Inner Side Of Human Nature. This Inner Side Is God's; The Outer Side Belongs To Men.