We Trifle When We Assign Limits To

Our First And Last Love Is Self-love.

No Man Is Happy Without A Delusion Of Some Kind. Delusions Are As Necessary To Our Happiness As Realities.

The Method Of The Critic Is To Balance Praises With Censure, And Thus To Do Justice To The Subject And--his Own Discrimination.

All Good Writing Leaves Something Unexpressed.

Truth, Like The Sun, Submits To Be Obscured; But, Like The Sun, Only For A Time.