“After a while, though, even the deepest sorrow faltered, even the most penetrating despair lost its scalpel edge.”

“Self-conceit is a sentiment entirely incompatible with genuine sorrow, and it is so firmly engrafted on human nature that even the most profound sorrow can seldom expel it altogether. Vanity in sorrow expresses itself by a desire to appear either stricken with grief or unhappy or brave: and this ignoble desire which we do not acknowledge but which hardly ever leaves us even in the deepest trouble robs our grief of its strength, dignity and sincerity.”

“In the deepest slumber-no! In delirium-no! In a swoon-no! In death-no! even in the grave all is not lost.”

“To conceive the horror of my sensations is, I presume, utterly impossible; yet a curiosity to penetrate the mysteries of these awful regions predominates even over my despair, and will reconcile me to the most hideous aspect of death.”

“The most beautiful heart of all is the one that can still love even while it bleeds, and especially after its been broken into thousands of pieces.”

“That’s when you realize the most of it—life, the relentless mechanism of existing—isn’t about you. It doesn’t include you at all. It will thrust onward even after you’ve jumped the edge. Even after you’re dead.”