Fiction Is The Microscope Of Truth.

The Death Of A Man's Wife Is Like Cutting Down An Ancient Oak That Has Long Shaded The Family Mansion. Henceforth The Glare Of The World, With Its Cares And Vicissitudes Falls Upon The Old Widower's Heart, And There Is Nothing To Break Their Force, Or Shield Him From The Full Weight Of Misfortune. It Is As If His Right Hand Were Withered; As If One Wing Of His Angel Was Broken, And Every Movement That He Made Brought Him To The Ground.

Time Is A Great Ocean Which, Like The Other Ocean, Overflows With Our Remains.

Grief Knits Two Hearts In Closer Bonds Than Happiness Ever Can; And Common Sufferings Are Far Stronger Links Than Common Joys.

Reading Furnishes The Mind Only With Materials Of Knowledge; It Is Thinking That Makes What We Read Ours. I Am The Fellow Citizen Of Every Being That Thinks; My Country Is Truth.

Limited In His Nature, Infinite In His Desires, Man Is A Fallen God Who Remembers The Heavens.