I don’t know what’s the matter with me—why I’m so adept at distance, why I feel so remote from things, why life feels like a rumour.
You were crying, weren’t you? You’ve actually been crying in your heart all this time, haven’t you? But you hid it, didn’t you?
That best portion of a man’s life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
Soul meets soul on lovers’ lips…
Her heart was a secret garden and the walls were very high.
It’s tragic how few people ever ‘possess their souls’ before they die. ‘Nothing is more rare in any man’, says Emerson, ‘than an act of his own.’ It is quite true. Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their life is a mimicry, their passions a quotation.