It's not catastrophes, murders, deaths, diseases, that age and kill us; it's the way people look and laugh, and run up the steps of omnibuses.
Anyhow, whether undergraduate or shop boy, man or woman, it must come as a shock about the age of twenty—the world of the elderly—thrown up in such black outline upon what we are; upon the reality; the moors and Byron; the sea and the lighthouse;...
I enjoy the spring more than the autumn now. One does, I think, as one gets older.
When the body escaped mutilation, seldom did the heart go to the grave unscarred.
Every face, every shop, bedroom window, public-house, and dark square is a picture feverishly turned--in search of what? It is the same with books. What do we seek through millions of pages?
I like books whose virtue is all drawn together in a page or two. I like sentences that don't budge though armies cross them.
anyone who’s worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, and with extravagant enthusiasm.
What's the use trying to read Shakespeare, especially in one of those little paper editions whose pages get ruffled, or stuck together with sea-water?
Kind old ladies assure us that cats are often the best judges of character. A cat will always go to a good man, they say[.]
They say the sky is the same everywhere. Travellers, the shipwrecked, exiles, and the dying draw comfort from the thought[.]
Indeed there has never been any explanation of the ebb and flow in our veins--of happiness and unhappiness.
It seems that a profound, impartial, and absolutely just opinion of our fellow-creatures is utterly unknown. Either we are men, or we are women. Either we are cold, or we are sentimental. Either we are young, or growing old. In any case life is but a...
No doubt we should be, on the whole, much worse off than we are without our astonishing gift for illusion.
But language is wine upon his lips
The strange thing about life is that though the nature of it must have been apparent to every one for hundreds of years, no one has left any adequate account of it. The streets of London have their map; but our passions are uncharted. What are you go...
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's night.
It is no use trying to sum people up.
He is precisely the young man to fall headlong in love and repent it for the rest of his life.
