“The marble keeps merely a cold and sad memory of a man who would else be forgotten. No man who needs a monument ever ought to have one.”

I find nothing so singular to life as that everything appears to lose its substance the instant one actually grapples with it.

There is great incongruity in this idea of monuments, since those to whom they are usually dedicated need no such recognition to embalm their memory; and any man who does, is not worthy of one.

A pure hand needs no glove to cover it.

Our most intimate friend is not he to whom we show the worst, but the best of our nature.

We dream in our waking moments, and walk in our sleep.

Oh, for the years I have not lived, but only dreamed of living.

I cannot endure to waste anything as precious as autumn sunshine by staying in the house. So I spend almost all the daylight hours in the open air.

Eager souls, mystics and revolutionaries, may propose to refashion the world in accordance with their dreams; but evil remains, and so long as it lurks in the secret places of the heart, utopia is only the shadow of a dream.

There is evil in every human heart, which may remain latent, perhaps, through the whole of life; but circumstances may rouse it to activity.

We go all wrong by too strenuous a resolution to go right.

Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.

What other dungeon is so dark as one’s own heart! What jailer so inexorable as one’s self!

Generosity is the flower of justice.

Selfishness is one of the qualities apt to inspire love.

Happiness is like a butterfly.

There is something truer and more real, than what we can see with the eyes, and touch with the finger.

She was cold by nature, self-love predominating over passion; rather than being virtuous, she preferred to have her pleasures all to herself.

The ’60s are my favorite decade – with the Cold War, the women’s movement. And then there’s the music, the fashion, the clothes, the hair.

You act like a cold cold man, frozen beyond repair, hardly uttering any word, action laced demeanor. Yet everything about you, from your ebony eyes, to your dazzling smile, makes me feel warm inside.

Paper and pen petrify me, for they pierce right through me, drawing deep blue blood, leaving me utterly cold.

The outer part of me so cold like an armor impenetrable. The words you throw at me ricochet and hit you in the heart.

Sweater, n.: garment worn by child when its mother is feeling chilly.

And she is going to dance, dance hungry, dance full, dance each cold astonishing moment, now when she is young and again when she is old.

I love how British guys dress for the cold.