“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.”

Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.

I dread the events of the future, not in themselves but in their results.

The ninety and nine are with dreams, content, but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.

That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.

Books, indeed, were his sole luxuries.

The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.

The depth lies in the valleys where we seek her, and not upon the mountain-tops where she is found.

The rudiment of verse may, possibly, be found in the spondee.

I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.

Man’s real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting that it soon will be so.

I am a writer. Therefore, I am not sane.

The believer is happy. The doubter is wise.

I have great faith in fools – self-confidence my friends will call it.

If you wish to forget anything on the spot, make a note that this thing is to be remembered.

Convinced myself, I seek not to convince.