There’s truth in wine, and there may be some in gin and muddy beer; but whether it’s truth worth my knowing, is another question.
There’s nothing kills a man so soon as having nobody to find fault with but himself.
There’s no real making amends in this world, any more than you can mend a wrong subtraction by doing your addition right.
There’s no pleasure i’ living, if you’re to be corked up for ever, and only dribble your mind out by the sly, like a leaky barrel.
There’s many a good bit o’ work done with a sad heart.
There’s good chances and bad chances, and nobody’s luck is pulled only by one string.
There is no sorrow I have thought more about than that – to love what is great, and try to reach it, and yet to fail.
There is no private life which has not been determined by a wider public life.
There is no killing the suspicion that deceit has once begotten.
There is no hopelessness so sad as that of early youth, when the soul is made up of wants, and has no long memories, no superadded life in the life of others.
There is no general doctrine which is not capable of eating out our morality if unchecked by the deep-seated habit of direct fellow-feeling with individual fellow-men.
There is no feeling, perhaps, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.
