My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery --always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?

It is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top.

We all indulge in the strange, pleasant process called thinking, but when it comes to saying, even to someone opposite, what we think, then how little we are able to convey!

One likes people much better when they're battered down by a prodigious siege of misfortune than when they triumph.

On the outskirts of every agony sits some observant fellow who points.