"The world owes all its onward impulses to men ill at ease. The happy man inevitably confines himself..." — Nathaniel Hawthorne

Nobody has any conscience about adding to the improbabilities of a marvelous tale.

Nobody, I think, ought to read poetry, or look at pictures or statues, who cannot find a great deal more in them than the poet or artist has actually expressed. Their highest merit is suggestiveness.

The only sensible ends of literature are, first, the pleasurable toil of writing; second, the gratification of one's family and friends; and lastly, the solid cash.

Our Creator would never have made such lovely days, and have given us the deep hearts to enjoy them, above and beyond all thought, unless we were meant to be immortal.