He Was A Man Of His Times.

If I Don't Write To Empty My Mind, I Go Mad. As To That Regular, Uninterrupted Love Of Writing. I Do Not Understand It. I Feel It As A Torture, Which I Must Get Rid Of, But Never As A Pleasure. On The Contrary, I Think Composition A Great Pain.

I Am About To Be Married, And Am Of Course In All The Misery Of A Man In Pursuit Of Happiness.

It Is Singular How Soon We Lose The Impression Of What Ceases To Be Constantly Before Us. A Year Impairs, A Luster Obliterates. There Is Little Distinct Left Without An Effort Of Memory, Then Indeed The Lights Are Rekindled For A Moment - But Who Can Be Sure That The Imagination Is Not The Torch-bearer?

A Feast Not Profuse But Elegant; More Of Salt [refinement] Than Of Expense.

That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are Song, The Poetry Of Speech.