Glory Is The Sunshine Of The Dead

In Love, What A Woman Mistakes For Disgust Is Actually Clearsightedness. If She Does Not Admire A Man, She Scorns Him.

The World Will Avenge Itself Upon All Happiness In Which It Has No Share.

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

Finance, Like Time, Devours Its Own Children.

Some Day You Will Find Out That There Is Far More Happiness In Another's Happiness Than In Your Own.