“We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us; yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.”

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

Armenian is the language to speak with God.

The dew of compassion is a tear.

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

Think not I am what I appear.

In solitude, where we are least alone.

Good work and joyous play go hand in hand. When play stops, old age begins. Play keeps you from taking life too seriously.

It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe; you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.

We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most; why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?

A woman who gives any advantage to a man may expect a lover – but will sooner or later find a tyrant.

Reason is so unreasonable, that few people can say they are in possession of it.

The lapse of ages changes all things – time, language, the earth, the bounds of the sea, the stars of the sky, and every thing about, around, and underneath man, except man himself.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.

Society is now one polished horde, formed of two mighty tries, the Bores and Bored.

The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.

Most days now his loss is a part of her, an awkward weight she carries around, invisible to everyone else, subtly altering the way she moves through the day. But today, the Anniversary of the day he died, is a day when all bets are off.

At every hour of every day, I can tell you on which page of which book each school child in Italy is studying.

It was a weird mix of emotions. One day, your best friend could be killed. The day before, you could be celebrating him getting a brand-new bike.

The city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is the New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something.

Youth is a malady of which one becomes cured a little every day.

One thing that’s true of gritty people is they love what they do, and they keep loving what they do. So they’re not just in love for a day or a week.

And I don’t want to look at you every day, to see you naked,to watch you wandering around the annexe in your crazy dresses and not…not be able to do what I want with you.

I will say that if my wildest dreams come true, I will, like, wake up one day, and I will be Carol Dweck, right? Because she is like everything I want to be.