In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

But I Had Not Quite Fixed Whether To Make Him [don Juan] End In Hell-or In An Unhappy Marriage,-not Knowing Which Would Be The Severest.

But Words Are Things, And A Small Drop Of Ink, Falling Like Dew, Upon A Thought, Produces That Which Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions, Think.

Perhaps The Early Grave Which Men Weep Over May Be Meant To Save.

If From Society We Learn To Live, Solitude Should Teach Us How To Die.

The Great Art Of Life Is Sensation, To Feel That We Exist, Even In Pain.