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

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.

It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.

The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?

There is an eloquence in true enthusiasm.

That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.

Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence.

There is no exquisite beauty without some strangeness in the proportion.

The past is a pebble in my shoe.

Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.

That which you mistake for madness is but an overacuteness of the senses.

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!