The Finest Landscape In The World Is

Nothing Concentrates One's Mind So Much As The Realization That One Is Going To Be Hanged In The Morning!

I Have Protracted My Work Till Most Of Those Whom I Wished To Please Have Sunk Into The Grave, And Success And Miscarriage Are Empty Sounds: I Therefore Dismiss It With Frigid Tranquillity, Having Little To Fear Or Hope From Censure Or From Praise.

There Seems To Be A Strange Affectation In Authors Of Appearing To Have Done Everything By Chance.

Tomorrow Is An Old Deceiver, And His Cheat Never Grows Stale.

There Is Something In Obstinacy Which Differs From Every Other Passion. Whenever It Fails, It Never Recovers, But Either Breaks Like Iron, Or Crumbles Sulkily Away, Like A Fractured Arch. Most Other Passions Have Their Periods Of Fatigue And Rest, Their Sufferings And Their Cure; But Obstinacy Has No Resource, And The First Wound Is Mortal.