H. Rider Haggard

. . . the extreme of unmorality is as fascinating to study as the extreme virtue and often more so.

It is only the nervous that climb the highest points of anything, and this is true of fights as of all others.

Fire may be lovely and attractive, also comforting at a proper distance, but he who sits on the top of it is cremated, as many a moth has found.

. . . when lost in a forest every path that may lead to safety should be explored

. . . what a man believes is true for him and will certainly befall. If it were otherwise, what is the use of faith which in a thousand forms supports our race and holds it from the horrors of the Pit? Only those who believe nothing …

. . . all joy grows from the root of pain.

The moths are few that fear the flame, but those are the moths which live.

. . . all are still savage at heart, even you and I. For what is termed culture is but coat upon coat of paint laid on to hide our native colour, and often there is poison in the paint.

Human nature does not change, Allan, and wine and women are ancient snares.

Oh! it is a strange world, full of jest to those who can see the strings that work it.

. . . your praying men . . . are cast in one mould and measured with one rule, and say what they are taught to say, not thinking for themselves . . . Some of them think . . . and then the others fall on them with big sticks. The real …

But what of names, which often enough mean nothing at all?

When one can think of nothing, it is best to follow the counsel of those who can think of something; also to hunt rather than to be hunted.

It seems that in this world we never can be content . . . we only think that we should be if things were otherwise than they are.

. . . the time of kings is not their own.

Forgive me since I acted for the best, only until the end no one ever knows what is the best.

. . . even a king may choose his own wife sometimes.

. . . gifts have a way of coming to those who do not desire them

. . . feasts are sometimes followed by want and rejoicings by sorrow and victories by defeat, and splendid sins by repentance and slow climbing back to good again.

It is well to be wise sometimes, for others’ sake, but not for our own, oh! not for our own.

. . . do not lie except when you are obliged, for jugglers who play with too many knives are apt to cut their fingers.

. . . too great holiness often thwarts itself and ends in trouble for the unholy flesh.

While you are a man, live the life of a man, and when you become a spirit, live the life of a spirit. But do not seek to mix the two together like oil and wine, and thus spoil both.

. . . why do you seek to peer into the future, which from day to day will unroll itself as does a scroll? Be content with the present, man, and take what Fate gives you of good or ill, not seeking to learn what offerings he hides beneath …