“A louse in the locks of literature.”

As love, if love be perfect, casts out fear, so hate, if hate be perfect, casts out fear.

A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.

Sweet is true love that is given in vain, and sweet is death that takes away pain.

Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering ‘it will be happier’.

I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death.

Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.

He makes no friend who never made a foe.

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.

Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.

The old order changes yielding place to new.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.

If you don’t concentrate on what you are doing then the thing that you are doing is not what you are thinking.

I found Him in the shining of the stars.

Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

As a body everyone is single, as a soul never.

It is not because other people are dead that our affection for them grows faint, it is because we ourselves are dying.

Time passes, and little by little everything that we have spoken in falsehood becomes true.

Everything great in the world comes from neurotics. They alone have founded our religions and composed our masterpieces.

Caesar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell; and George the Third — [‘Treason!’ cried the Speaker] — may profit by their example. If this be treason, make the most of it.

The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.

He knew everything there was to know about literature, except how to enjoy it.

Do you realize that all great literature is all about what a bummer it is to be a human being? Isn’t it such a relief to have somebody say that?