Nathaniel Hawthorne (/ˈhɔːθɔːrn/; né Hathorne; July 4, 1804 – May 19, 1864) was an American novelist, dark romantic, and short story writer.
Who can tell where happiness may come, or where, though an expected guest, it may never show its face?
Last night, there came a frost, which has done great damage to my garden. . . . It is sad that Nature will play such tricks on us poor mortals, inviting us with sunny smiles to confide in her, and then, when we are entirely within her power, striking us to the heart.
It is very singular how the fact of a man's death often seems to give people a truer idea of his character, whether for good or evil, than they have ever possessed while he was living and acting among them.
A singular fact, that, when man is a brute, he is the most sensual and loathsome of all brutes.
Dream strange things and make them look like truth.
To do nothing is the way to be nothing.
If human love hath power to penetrate the veil--and hath it not?--then there are yet living here a few who have the blessedness of knowing that an angel loves them.
There is so much wretchedness in the world, that we may safely take the word of any mortal professing to need our assistance; and, even should we be deceived, still the good to ourselves resulting from a kind act is worth more than the trifle by which we purchase it.
I have laughed, in bitterness and agony of heart, at the contrast between what I seem and what I am!
Nothing gives a sadder sense of decay than this loss or suspension of the power to deal with unaccustomed things, and to keep up with the swiftness of the passing moment. [Speaking of self-posed isolation in old age. ]
When scattered clouds are resting on the bosoms of hills, it seems as if one might climb into the heavenly region, earth being so intermixed with sky, and gradually transformed into it.
We are as happy as people can be, without making themselves ridiculous, and might be even happier; but, as a matter of taste, we choose to stop short at this point.
What, in the name of common-sense, had I to do with any better society than I had always lived in?
I wish I had the gift of making rhymes, for methinks there is poetry in my head and heart since I have been in love with you.
It was a day in early spring; and as that sweet, genial time of year and atmosphere calls out tender greenness from the ground,--beautiful flowers, or leaves that look beautiful because so long unseen under the snow and decay,--so the pleasant air and warmth had called out three young people, who sat on a sunny hill-side enjoying the warm day and one another.
If cities were built by the sound of music, then some edifices would appear to be constructed by grave, solemn tones,--others to have danced forth to light fantastic airs.
Happiness is like a butterfly - the more you chase, the more subtle, but if you stop moving and quietly wait for it to land on you.
Amid the seeming confusion of our mysterious world , individuals are so nicely adjusted to a system, and systems to one another and to a whole, that, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes himself to a fearful risk of losing his place forever. (Wakefield)
When an uninstructed multitude attempts to see with its eyes, it is exceedingly apt to be deceived.
In all her intercourse with society, however, there was nothing that made her feel as if she belonged to it. . . She stood apart from mortal interests, yet close beside them, like a ghost that revisits the familiar fireside, and can no longer make itself seen or felt.