I write to escape; to escape poverty.
— Edgar Rice Burroughs
Love is a strange master, and human nature is still stranger.
I loved her. I still love her, though I curse her in my sleep, so nearly one are love and hate, the two most powerful and devasting emotions that control man, nations, life.
Anger and hate against one we love steels our hearts, but contempt or pity leaves us silent and ashamed.
It never seems to occur to some people, that, like beauty, a sense of humor may sometimes be fatal.
The more one listens to ordinary conversations the more apparent it becomes that the reasoning faculties of the brain take little part in the direction of the vocal organs.
She did not admire him any more than she had. It was merely that she considered him the Lesser of two evils.
Death, only, renders hope futile.
Imagination is but another name for super intelligence.
Were there no desire there would be no virtue, and because one man desires what another does not, who shall say whether the child of his desire be Vice or Virtue?
