If We Could Read The Secret History

How Beautiful The Silent Hour, When Morning And Evening Thus Sit Together, Hand In Hand, Beneath The Starless Sky Of Midnight!

Ah, How Good It Feels! The Hand Of An Old Friend.

It Is True, That It Is Not At All Necessary To Love Many Books, In Order To Love Them Much.

I Am More Afraid Of Deserving Criticism Than Of Receiving It. I Stand In Awe Of My Own Opinion. The Secret Demerits Of Which We Alone, Perhaps, Are Conscious, Are Often More Difficult To Bear Than Those Which Have Been Publicly Censured In Us, And Thus In Some Degree Atoned For.

It Has Done Me Good To Be Somewhat Parched By The Heat And Drenched By The Rain Of Life.