The Hand Which Moves Over The Dial

There Is But One Way Of Refusing To-morrow, That Is To Die.

Without Vanity, Without Coquetry, Without Curiosity, In A Word, Without The Fall, Woman Would Not Be Woman. Much Of Her Grace Is In Her Frailty.

If A Writer Wrote Merely For His Time, I Would Have To Break My Pen And Throw It Away.

The Hatred Of Luxury Is Not An Intelligent Hatred. It Implies A Hatred Of Arts.

Strong And Rare Natures Are Thus Created; Misery, Almost Always A Stepmother, Is Sometimes A Mother; Privation Gives Birth To Power Of Soul And Mind; Distress Is The Nurse Of Self-respect; Misfortune Is A Good Breast For Great Souls.