Nathaniel Hawthorne (/ˈhɔːθɔːrn/; né Hathorne; July 4, 1804 – May 19, 1864) was an American novelist, dark romantic, and short story writer.
There is no greater bugbear than a strong willed relative in the circle of his own connections.
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.
A human spirit may find no insufficiency of food fit for it, even in the Custom House.
The best of us being unfit to die, what an unexpressible absurdity to put the worst to death.
. . . and we have so far improved upon the custom of Adam and Eve, that we generally furnish forth our feasts with a portion of some delicate calf or lamb, whose unspotted innocence entitles them to the happiness of becoming our sustenance.
The moment when a man's head drops off is seldom or never, I am inclined to think, precisely the most agreeable of his life.
Methinks it is a token of healthy and gentle characteristics, when women of high thoughts and accomplishments love to sew; especially as they are never more at home with their own hearts than while so occupied.
This above all: be true, be true, be true.
Shall we never never get rid of this Past?. . . It lies upon the Present like a giant's dead body.
It is a little remarkable, that - though disinclined to talk overmuch of myself and my affairs at the fireside, and to my personal friends - an autobiographical impulse should twice in my life have taken possession of me, in addressing the public.
Genius, indeed, melts many ages into one, and thus effects something permanent, yet still with a similarity of office to that of the more ephemeral writer. A work of genius is but the newspaper of a century, or perchance of a hundred centuries.
The washing of dishes does seem to me the most absurd and unsatisfactory business that I ever undertook. If, when once washed, they would remain clean for ever and ever (which they ought in all reason to do, considering how much trouble it is), there would be less occasion to grumble; but no sooner is it done, than it requires to be done again. On the whole, I have come to the resolution not to use more than one dish at each meal.
What a happy and holy fashion it is that those who love one another should rest on the same pillow.
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.
When an uninstructed multitude attempts to see with its eyes, it is exceedingly apt to be deceived.
A writer of story books! What kind of business in life-what mode of glorifying God, or being serviceable to mankind in his day and generation-may that be? Why, the degenerate fellow might as well have been a fiddler!
Earth has one angel less and heaven one more, since yesterday.
It will startle you to see what slaves we are to by-gone times-to Death, if we give the matter the right word!. . . We read in Dead Men's books! We laugh at Dead Men's jokes, and cry at Dead Men's pathos!. . . Whatever we seek to do, of our own free motion, a Dead Man's icy hand obstructs us!
Come, therefore, and let us fling mud at them!
Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.