My destination is no longer a place, rather a new way of seeing.

People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad.

But,instead of what our imagination makes us suppose and which we worthless try to discover,life gives us something that we could hardly imagine.

Even when she had to make some one a present of the kind called 'useful,' when she had to give an armchair or some table-silver or a walking-stick, she would choose 'antiques,' as though their long desuetude had effaced from them any semblance of utility and fitted them rather to instruct us in the lives of the men of other days than to serve the common requirements of our own.

... the idea that 'Life' contains situations more interesting and more romantic than all the romances ever written.

And my grandmother had bought them in preference to other books, just as she would have preferred to take a house that had a gothic dovecot, or some other such piece of antiquity as would have a pleasant effect on the mind, filling it with a nostalgic longing for impossible journeys through the realms of time.

Everything that seems imperishable tends to extinguishment.

So what I had believed to be nothing to me was simply my entire life. How ignorant one is of oneself.

...but I must say there’s nothing amuses me like a little devilry now and then. Life would be dreadfully monotonous without it.