Where there is mystery, it is generally supposed there must be evil. - Lord Byron

If I had never lived, that which I love had still been living; had I never loved, that which I love would still be beautiful — happy and giving happiness. What is she? What is she now? — a sufferer for my sins — a thing I dare not think upon — or nothing.

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, and greater criminals?

The causes that have made me wretched would probably not have discomposed, or, at least, more than discomposed, another. We are all differently organized; and that I feel acutely is no more my fault (though it is my misfortune) than that another feels not, is his. We did not make ourselves, and if the elements of unhappiness abound more in the nature of one man than another, he is but the more entitled to our pity and our forbearance.