Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than merely to keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world’s view of us.

Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither.

For Orlando’s taste was broad; he was no lover of garden flowers only; the wild and the weeds even had always a fascination for him.

Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living?

“Better is it,” she thought, “to be clothed with poverty and ignorance, which are the dark garments of the female sex; better to leave the rule and discipline of the world to others; better to be quit of martial ambition, the love of power, and all the other manly desires if so one can more fully enjoy the most exalted raptures known to the human

For once the disease of reading has laid hold upon the system it weakens it so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.

For the philosopher is right who says that nothing thicker than a knife’s blade separates happiness from melancholy;

One can only believe entirely, perhaps, in what one cannot see.

No passion is stronger in the breast of man than the desire to make others believe as he believes. Nothing so cuts at the root of his happiness and fills him with rage as the sense that another rates low what he prizes high.