The only business of the head in the world is to bow a ceaseless obeisance to the heart.

This melancholy London. I sometimes imagine that the souls of the lost are compelled to walk through its streets perpetually. One feels them passing like a whi…

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is al…

I hate journalists. There is nothing in them but tittering jeering emptiness. They have all made what Dante calls the Great Refusal, - that is they have ceased…

As I am never better than when I am mad; then methinks I am a brave fellow; then I do wonders: but reason abuseth me, and there's the torment, there's the hell.

Passion is a sort of fever in the mind, which ever leaves us weaker than it found us.

'The brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries.'