Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face. Victor Hug
If a writer wrote merely for his time, I would have to break my pen and throw it away.
A bit of mould is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an ant-hill of stars.
The greatest blunders, like the thickest ropes, are often compounded of a multitude of strands. Take the rope apart, separate it into the small threads that compose it, and you can break them one by one. You think, That is all there was! But twist them all together and you have something tremendous.
Nothing is more imminent than the impossible . . . what we must always foresee is the unforeseen.