Death is the king of this world: 'Tis his park where he breeds life to feed him. Cries of pain are music for his banquet.
From George Eliot
There is a sort of jealousy which needs very little fire; it is hardly a passion, but a blight bred in the cloudy, damp despondency of uneasy egoism.
The responsibility of tolerance lies with those who have the wider vision.
Genius at first is little more than a great capacity for receiving discipline.
Cruelty, like every other vice, requires no motive outside of itself; it only requires opportunity.
No compliment can be eloquent, except as an expression of indifference.
In every parting there is an image of death.
It is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view.
It is easy to say how we love new friends, and what we think of them, but words can never trace out all the fibers that knit us to the old.
He was like a cock who thought the sun had risen to hear him crow.
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