No Man Sympathizes With The Sorrows Of

He Who Has So Little Knowledge Of Human Nature As To Seek Happiness By Changing Anything But His Own Disposition Will Waste His Life In Fruitless Efforts.

Never, My Dear Sir, Do You Take It Into Your Head That I Do Not Love You; You May Settle Yourself In Full Confidence Both Of My Love And My Esteem; I Love You As A Kind Man, I Value You As A Worthy Man, And Hope In Time To Reverence You As A Man Of Exemplary Piety.

Nothing Is More Common Than For Men To Make Partial And Absurd Distinctions Between Vices Of Equal Enormity, And To Observe Some Of The Divine Commands With Great Scrupulousness, While They Violate Others, Equally Important, Without Any Concern, Or The Least Apparent Conciousness Of Guilt. Alas, It Is Only Wisdom Which Perceives This Tragedy.

I Fancy Mankind May Come, In Time, To Write All Aphoristically, Except In Narrative; Grow Weary Of Preparation, And Connection, And Illustration, And All Those Arts By Which A Big Book Is Made.

Sorrow Is The Mere Rust Of The Soul. Activity Will Cleanse And Brighten It.