It is always the simple that produces the marvelous.
The fate of love is that it always seems too little or too much.
Whatever the scientists may say if we take the supernatural out of life we leave only the unnatural.
Events that are predestined require but little management. They manage themselves. They slip into place while we sleep and suddenly we are aware that the thing we fear to attempt is already accomplished.
All changes are more or less tinged with melancholy for what we are leaving behind is part of ourselves.
When men make themselves into brutes it is just to treat them like brutes.
The inevitable has always found me ready and hopeful.
But what do we know of the heart nearest to our own? What do we know of our own heart?