People love talking of their diseases, although they are the most uninteresting things in their lives. - Anton Chekhov

Seeing me, she uttered a cry of joy, and probably, if we had not been in the park, would have thrown herself on my neck. She pressed my hands warmly and laughed; and I laughed too and almost cried with emotion. Questions followed, of the village, of my father, whether I had seen her brother, and so on. She insisted on my looking her straight in the face, and asked if I remembered the gudgeon, our little quarrels, the picnics. . . .

The world is, of course, nothing but our conception of it.

Once a man gets a fixed idea, there's nothing to be done.