Novelists Should Never Allow Themselves To Weary

Mr. Rochester, I No More Assign This Fate To You Than I Grasp At It For Myself. We Were Born To Strive And Endure - You As Well As I: Do So. You Will Forget Me Before I Forget You.

[i]n His Presence I Thoroughly Lived.

One Does Not Jump, And Spring, And Shout Hurrah! At Hearing One Has Got A Fortune, One Begins To Consider Responsibilities, And To Ponder Business; On A Base Of Steady Satisfaction Rise Certain Grave Cares, And We Contain Ourselves, And Brood Over Our Bliss With A Solemn Brow.

If There Are Words And Wrongs Like Knives, Whose Deep Inflicted Lacerations Never Heal - Cutting Injuries And Insults Of Serrated And Poison-dripping Edge - So, Too, There Are Consolations Of Tone Too Fine For The Ear Not Fondly And For Ever To Retain Their Echo: Caressing Kindnesses - Loved, Lingered Over Through A Whole Life, Recalled With Unfaded Tenderness, And Answering The Call With Undimmed Shine, Out Of That Raven Cloud Foreshadowing Death Himself.

Children Can Feel, But They Cannot Analyse Their Feelings; And If The Analysis Is Partially Effected In Thought, They Know Not How To Express The Result Of The Process In Words.