What A Thing Of Fantasy A Woman

For Certain People, Misfortune Is A Beacon That Lights Up The Dark And Baser Sides Of Social Life.

There Are Houses In Certain Provincial Towns Whose Aspect Inspires Melancholy, Akin To That Called Forth By Sombre Cloisters, Dreary Moorlands, Or The Desolation Of Ruins. Within These Houses There Is, Perhaps, The Silence Of The Cloister, The Barrenness Of Moors, The Skeleton Of Ruins; Life And Movement Are So Stagnant There That A Stranger Might Think Them Uninhabited, Were It Not That He Encounters Suddenly The Pale, Cold Glance Of A Motionless Person, Whose Half-monastic Face Peers Beyond The Window-casing At The Sound Of An Unaccustomed Step.

Misfortune, No Less Than Happiness, Inspires Us To Dream.

It Is The Mark Of A Great Man That He Puts To Flight All Ordinary Calculations. He Is At Once Sublime And Touching, Childlike And Of The Race Of Giants.

Women, When They Have Made A Sheep Of A Man, Always Tell Him That He Is A Lion With A Will Of Iron.