There Is Neither Vice Nor Virtue, There

A Husband And Wife Who Are In The Habit Of Occupying Separate Rooms Are Either Beings Apart, Or They Have Found Happiness. Either They Hate Or They Adore Each Other.

Poetry Is Only Born After Painful Journeys Into The Vast Regions Of Thought.

The Human Heart May Find Here And There A Resting-place Short Of The Highest Height Of Affection, But We Seldom Stop In The Steep, Downward Slope Of Hatred.

Our Happiness Often Depends Upon Social Hypocrisies To Which We Will Never Stoop.

Admiration Bestowed Upon Any One But Ourselves Is Always Tedious.