. . . the dead keep their wisdom to themselves

For what man is there who does not prize that gift most rare and beautiful, that one perfect thing which no gold can buy – a woman's unfeigned love?

I do not believe in violence; it is the last resort of fools.

. . . the devil never dies

Love counts not its labour nor can it weigh its tenderness in the scale of purchase. That which it has it gives, and craves for more to give and give, till the soul's infinity be drained.

You lie; you always were a liar, and you always will be a liar.

There is no loneliness like the loneliness of crowds, especially to those who are unaccustomed to them.