“There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou – Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.”

How cruel, your veins are full of ice-water and mine are boiling.

You must forgive me, for I struggled only for you.

It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those wasted hands,’ he answered. ‘Kiss me again; and don’t let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer—but yours! How can I?

That is how I’m loved! Well, never mind. That is not my Heathcliff. I shall love mine yet; and take him with me: he’s in my soul.

A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.

Cold in the earth and the deeps now piled above thee, Far, far, removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Severed at last byTime’s all-serving wave?

The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me, And I cannot, cannot go.

Wondered how anyone could ever imagine unquiet slumbers, for the sleepers in that quiet earth.

Look on the grave where thou must sleep Thy last, and strongest foe; It is endurance not to weep, If that repose seem woe.

Your presence is a moral poison that would contaminate the most virtuous.

It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself compared with him.

It’s no company at all, when people know nothing and say nothing,’ she muttered.

I am now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or town.

I see heaven’s glories shine and faith shines equal.

Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves. But if you be afraid of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind, when she comes in.

I can say with sincerity that I like cats. A cat is an animal which has more human feelings than almost any other.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.

Skating alone is an art. Doing it on a substance? I don’t know. That’s got to be tough.

All creative art is magic, is evocation of the unseen in forms persuasive, enlightening, familiar and surprising.

Any work that aspires, however humbly, to the condition of art should carry its justification in every line.

Religion and art spring from the same root and are close kin. Economics and art are strangers.

Forced idleness evolves into beauty.

Wild roses are fairest, and nature a better gardener than art.

If there is no mystery, for the artist, to solve inside of his art, then there’s no point in it….for me, every act of the art of solving a mystery.