. . . little in the world is pretty, except the world itself

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

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

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?

. . . 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.

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