...but in the next moment I cursed myself for being so great a fool as to dream of hope at all.
A short story must have a single mood and every sentence must build towards it.
Depend upon it, after all, Thomas, Literature is the most noble of professions. In fact, it is about the only one fit for a man. For my own part, there is no seducing me from the path.
All religion, my friend, is simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.
I have, indeed, no abhorrence of danger, except in its absolute effect - in terror.
Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.'
I have no faith in human perfectability. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago.
The generous Critic fann'd the Poet's fire, And taught the world with reason to admire.
It will be found, in fact, that the ingenious are always fanciful, and the truly imaginative never otherwise than analytic.
A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this - that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made - not to understand - but to feel - as crime.
Experience has shown, and a true philosophy will always show, that a vast, perhaps the larger portion of the truth arises from the seemingly irrelevant.
I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a sequence of cause and effect, between the disaster and the atrocity.
To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.
The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.
Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development, invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
The ninety and nine are with dreams, content but the hope of the world made new, is the hundredth man who is grimly bent on making those dreams come true.
In criticism I will be bold, and as sternly, absolutely just with friend and foe. From this purpose nothing shall turn me.
The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?
I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty.
