Just imagine whole novels made up of lines like this:
“It is never too late to be what you might have been.”
“A friend is one to whom one may pour out the contents of one's heart, chaff and grain together, knowing that gentle hands will take and sift it, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.”
“The difficult task of knowing another soul is not for young gentlemen whose consciousness is chiefly made up of their own wishes.”
“What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other?”
“For my part I am very sorry for him. It is an uneasy lot at best, to be what we call highly taught and yet not to enjoy: to be present at this great spectacle of life and never to be liberated from a small hungry shivering self.”
“It will never rain roses: when we want to have more roses, we must plant more roses.”
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