Whom Man Kills, Him God Restoreth To

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

It Seemed To Be A Necessary Ritual That He Should Prepare Himself For Sleep By Meditating Under The Solemnity Of The Night Sky... A Mysterious Transaction Between The Infinity Of The Soul And The Infinity Of The Universe.

His Universal Compassion Was Due Less To Natural Instinct, Than To A Profound Conviction, A Sum Of Thoughts That In The Course Of Living Had Filtered Through To His Heart: For In The Nature Of Man, As In Rock, There May Be Channels Hollowed By The Dropping Of Water, And These Can Never Be Destroyed.

Smallness In A Great Man Seems Smaller By Its Disproportion With All The Rest.

Melancholy Is The Happiness Of Being Sad.