All Human Power Is A Compound Of

Old Maids, Having Never Bent Their Temper Or Their Lives To Other Lives And Other Tempers, As Woman's Destiny Requires, Have For The Most Part A Mania For Making Everything About Them Bend To Them.

The Greater A Man's Talents, The More Marked His Idiosyncracies. Yet In The Provinces Originality Is Considered Perilously Close To Lunacy.

Solitude Is Fine, But You Need Someone To Tell You That Solitude Is Fine.

God Is The Author, Men Are Only The Players. These Grand Pieces Which Are Played Upon Earth Have Been Composed In Heaven.

We Flew Back Home Like Swallows. 'is It Happiness That Makes Us So Light?' Agathe Asked.