A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, adored by little statesman and philosophers and divines.

Before another word could be said by any body a thundering knock at the street-door startled us all. I looked through the window and saw the World, the Flesh, and the Devil waiting before the house—as typified in a carriage and horses, a powdered footman, and three of the most audaciously dressed women I ever beheld in my life.

I am (thank God!) constitutionally superior to reason. This enabled me to hold firm to my lady’s view, which was my view also. This roused my spirit, and made me put a bold face on it before Sergeant Cuff. Profit, good friends, I beseech you, by my example. It will save you from many troubles of the vexing sort. Cultivate a superiority to reason, and see how you pare the claws of all the sensible people when they try to scratch you for your own good!

The soundest fact may fail or prevail in the style of its telling: like that singular organic jewel of our seas, which grows brighter as one woman wears it and, worn by another, dulls and goes to dust. Facts are no more solid, coherent, round, and real than pearls are. But both are sensitive.

It makes your sin no worse, as I conceive, to do it a la mode

Heading South so I can go North
Guided by birds but drifting off course
Read the tide-table before starting out
But 30 years old with chapters torn out
You, waking up from a dream of the sea
Safe in the harbour from sailors like me
You, in the kitchen, waiting on tea
Whilst I lose the compass to a trick of the sea

I did not usurp the crown. I found it — in the gutter.

I am growing great in Latin verses, and neglect the laces of my boots.

Try to preserve an author’s style as if he is an author and has a style.

Very like a whale.