I Have Not The Pleasure Of Understanding

There Are Few People Whom I Really Love And Still Fewer Of Whom I Think Well.

I Have Faults Enough, But They Are Not, I Hope, Of Understanding. My Temper I Dare Not Vouch For. It Is, I Believe, Too Little Yielding— Certainly Too Little For The Convenience Of The World. I Cannot Forget The Follies And Vices Of Other So Soon As I Ought, Nor Their Offenses Against Myself. My Feelings Are Not Puffed About With Every Attempt To Move Them. My Temper Would Perhaps Be Called Resentful. My Good Opinion Once Lost, Is Lost Forever.

A Woman Of Seven And Twenty, Said Marianne, After Pausing A Moment, Can Never Hope To Feel Or Inspire Affection Again.

I Am No Indiscriminate Novel Reader. The Mere Trash Of The Common Circulating Library I Hold In The Highest Contempt.

Let Other Pens Dwell On Guilt And Misery.