Book: Mill on Flosse

I live only in the past - because in my life there's nothing else.

But the outpouring of a heart at times misleading, even when they are quite sincere.

I am very pleased to know that I have admired, but compliments never I wasn't convinced.

I quite like languishing in captivity a polar bear I once saw in the zoo. I remember I thought then that he, poor thing, so dulled, moving back and forth in a small cage that let him free, he would still be stagnate. So we are gradually coming to grips with their misfortune, and it becomes a habit.

Secrets rarely come out or disclosed in a way that tells us our fear.

The possibility that someone will love me, seemed so distant - like a dream, like one of those tales that come up with for himself.

I hope he's in their plans does not expect that all of it will make relatives; today's young people just hoping.

What is to deprive of food your mind? It is narrow asceticism, am sad to see that you persist in it, Maggie. Poetry, art and knowledge pure and Holy.

The days of chivalry have not passed away, despite a solemn memorial service which was served on him by Burke; they still live in the worship from afar, which many, many boys and men look at a woman, even in dreams, not daring to touch her little finger or the edge of clothing.

It is in our life, where some suffer for the sins of others, where so inevitably interrelated human suffering, that even justice has its victims, and retaliation often goes beyond the mark, punishing innocent people.

In sixteen years, even the most zealous advocate of the facts are not free from the illusions and exaggeration of their merits.

People living far away from us, naturally, have fewer disadvantages than those who are on the eyes.

These familiar flowers, these imprinted in the memory of bird voices, this sky, clear, cloud, the fields and meadows, thanks to the whimsical green hedges, are so different from each other - all of this - the native language of our imagination, the language is full of complicated, subtle associations, which left us flying our childhood. Perhaps our weary souls did not enjoy the glare of the sun on the thick lush grass and only vaguely sensed their charm, if not for the sunlight and the grass that early day who still live in our souls and translate that feeling into love.

We never loved our land so if they hadn't spent her childhood, if not seen every spring the same flowers that were once collected with her little fingers, sitting on the grass and something babbling, the same berries in the autumn, the hedges of wild rose and hawthorn, the Robins, whom we once called "God's birds" because they do not cause harm to the precious crops. What changing experience can compare with the sweet monotony of what we expect and because pleasure?