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One likes to think that there is some fantastic limbo for the children of imagination, some strange, impossible place where the beaux of Fielding may ...more

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Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.

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My mind is like a racing engine, tearing itself to pieces because it is not connected up with the work for which it was built. Life is commonplace; th...more

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Our highest assurance of the goodness of Providence seems to me to rest in the flowers. All other things, our powers, our desires, our food, are all r...more

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You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange ...more

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My mind rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own...more

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It is, I admit, mere imagination; but how often is imagination the mother of truth?

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Picnics are very dear to those who are in the first stage of the tender passion.

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What you do in this world is a matter of no consequence, the question is what you can make people believe that you have done.

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My job is to know what other people do not know.

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Accounts are not quite settled between us," said she, with a passion that equaled my own. "I can love, and I can hate. You had your choice. You chose ...more

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Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent.

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A study in scarlet, eh? Why shouldn't we use a little art jargon? There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, a...more