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There are some persons in this world, who, unable to give better proof of being wise, take a strange delight in showing what they think they have sagaciously read in mankind by uncharitable suspicions of them.

Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.

Faith, like a jackal, feeds among the tombs, and even from these dead doubts she gathers her most vital hope.

Is there some principal of nature which states that we never know the quality of what we have until it is gone?

There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes his whole universe for a vast practical joke.

He piled upon the whale’s white hump the sum of all the general rage and hate felt by his whole race from Adam down; and then, as if his chest had been a mortar, he burst his hot heart’s shell upon it.

They talk of the dignity of work. The dignity is in leisure.

There is one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath.

Truth is in things, and not in words.

It is not down in any map; true places never are.