The streets of London have their map; but our passions are uncharted. What are you going to meet if you turn this corner?
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.
Melancholy were the sounds on a winter’s night.
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.
Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title.
Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us.
As if language were wine upon his lips.
Any one who’s worth anything reads just what he likes, as the mood takes him, with extravagant enthusiasm.
