Quotes 101 till 120 of 120.
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Stupidity is a talent for misconception.
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Thank Heaven! the crisis - the danger, is past, and the lingering illness, is over at last, and the fever called ''Living'' is conquered at last.
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That man is not truly brave who is afraid either to seem or to be, when it suits him, a coward.
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That pleasure which is at once the most pure, the most elevating and the most intense, is derived, I maintain, from the contemplation of the beautiful.
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The best chess-player in Christendom may be little more than the best player of chess; but proficiency in whist implies capacity for success in all these more important undertakings where mind struggles with mind.
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The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.
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The greater amount of truth is impulsively uttered; thus the greater amount is spoken, not written.
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The nose of a mob is its imagination. By this, at any time, it can be quietly led.
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The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.
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The writer who neglects punctuation, or mispunctuates, is liable to be misunderstood for the want of merely a comma, it often occurs that an axiom appears a paradox, or that a sarcasm is converted into a sermonoid.
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There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few.
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There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.
Tales by Edgar Allan Poe (1927) 349 -
There is no beauty without some strangeness.
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There is something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a brute, which goes directly to the heart of him who has had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and gossamer fidelity of mere Man.
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To be thoroughly conversant with a man's heart, is to take our final lesson in the iron-clasped volume of despair.
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To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.
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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.''
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With me poetry has not been a purpose, but a passion.
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Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.
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Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.
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