But we never get back our youth… The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to.
Romantic art deals with the exception and with the individual. Good people, belonging as they do to the normal, and so, commonplace type, are artistically uninteresting.
The pen is mightier than the paving-stone.
A man who does not think for himself does not think at all.
In old days books were written by men of letters and read by the public. Nowadays books are written by the public and read by nobody.
Where there is sorrow, there is holy ground.