I have a notion that gamblers are as happy as most people, being alway >>
Hatred is the madness of the heart. >>
Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave? >>
You never know how much a man can't remember until he is called as a w >>
Memory always obeys the commands of the heart. >>
I can only wait for the final amnesia, the one that can erase an entir >>
It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment --but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?