Tis well to be merry and wise, 'Tis well to be honest and true; It is best to be off with the old love, Before you are on with the new.

Beauty hath no lustre save when it gleameth through the crystal web that purity's fine fingers weave for it.

Nor cell, nor chain, nor dungeon speaks to the murderer like the voice of solitude.

There is no error more absurd, and yet more rooted in the heart of man, than the belief that his sufferings will promote his spiritual safety.

A malady Preys on my heart that med'cine cannot reach.

O wretched is the dame, to whom the sound, "Your lord will soon return," no phrase brings.

It is actually possible to become amateurs in suffering.

They waste life in what are called good resolutions-partial efforts at reformation, feebly commenced, heartlessly conducted, and hopelessly concluded.

The soul shares not the body's test.

Let those who smile at me, ask themselves whether they have been indebted most to imagination or reality for all they have enjoyed in life, if indeed they have ever enjoyed any thing.

Many a month of gloomy unconsciousness rolled over me, without date or notice. One thousand waves may welter over a sunk wreck, and be felt as one.

Don’t tell me how educated you are, tell me how much you traveled.

A man of principles is a man of his word

I lived for two years in Odawara, a castle town an hour outside of Tokyo, near the sea. It's a beautiful place, and I drew on my experiences there when writing 'The Lake of Dreams.'

The future is a strange monster. The less there is of it, the more it frightens.

Championship teams are built on being prepared, playing unselfishly and being held accountable.

Let me go.” “I can’t”, he said hoarsely, (…)” I’ve tried a hundred times to let you go, Victoria, but I can’t.

I usually make to-do lists with timelines, and pen and paper does the trick for me.

Little things are great to little men.

Being single isn't the cause of loneliness, and marriage is not necessarily the cure. There are many lonely married people as well.

What is a memory? Not a storehouse, not a trunk in the attic, but an instrument that constantly refines the past into a narrative, accessible and acceptable to oneself.