Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear.
There is no beauty without some strangeness.
And then there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, the thought of what sweet rest there must be in the grave.
The fury of a demon instantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My original soul seemed, at once, to take its flight from my body; and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin-nurtured, thrilled every fibre of my frame.
A strong argument for the religion of Christ is this – that offences against Charity are about the only ones which men on their death-beds can be made – not to understand – but to feel – as crime.
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.
True, nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am, but why will say that I am mad?! The disease had haunted my senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. Of all the sense of hearing acute.
The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls.
The eye, like a shattered mirror, multiplies the images of sorrow.
Stupidity is a talent for misconception.
Sensations are the great things, after all. Should you ever be drowned or hung, be sure and make a note of your sensations; they will be worth to you ten guineas a sheet.
In the tale proper – where there is no space for development of character or for great profusion and variety of incident – mere construction is, of course, far more imperatively demanded than in the novel.
I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.
Even in the grave, all is not lost.
I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
Years of love have been forgot, In the hatred of a minute.
Sleep, those little slices of death – how I loathe them.
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.
There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion.