To observe attentively is to remember distinctly.
They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only at night.
The true genius shudders at incompleteness – imperfection – and usually prefers silence to saying the something which is not everything that should be said.
The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge.
That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.
No incident ever occurring in the course of human events is more adapted to inspire the supremeness of mental and bodily distress than a case like our own, of living inhumation.
It is a happiness to wonder; – it is a happiness to dream.
I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have perilled life and reputation and reason. It has been in the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories – memories of wrong and injustice and imputed dishonor – from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.
I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
From childhood’s hour I have not been. As others were – I have not seen. As others saw – I could not bring. My passions from a common spring – from the same source I have not taken. My sorrow – I could not awaken. My heart to joy at the same tone – and all I lov’d – I lov’d alone.
Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger, portion of truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant.
But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which are, have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been.
