We Are What We Repeatedly Do. Excellence,

What The Horrors Of War Are, No One Can Imagine. They Are Not Wounds And Blood And Fever, Spotted And Low, Or Dysentery, Chronic And Acute, Cold And Heat And Famine. They Are Intoxication, Drunken Brutality, Demoralization And Disorder On The Part Of The Inferior... Jealousies, Meanness, Indifference, Selfish Brutality On The Part Of The Superior.

The Time Is Come When Women Must Do Something More Than The "domestic Hearth," Which Means Nursing The Infants, Keeping A Pretty House, Having A Good Dinner And An Entertaining Party.

[on Thomas Babington Macaulay:] He Was A Most Disagreeable Companion To My Fancy ... His Conversation Was A Procession Of One.

A Woman Cannot Live In The Light Of Intellect. Society Forbids It. Those Conventional Frivolities, Which Are Called Her 'duties', Forbid It. Her 'domestic Duties', High-sounding Words, Which, For The Most Part, Are But Bad Habits (which She Has Not The Courage To Enfranchise Herself From, The Strength To Break Through), Forbid It.

I Stand At The Altar Of Murdered Men, And, While I Live, I Fight Their Cause.