The beginning of all wisdom is to look fixedly on clothes, or even with armed eyesight, till they become transparent.
I call that [Book of Job], apart from all theories about it, one of the grandest things ever written with pen.
God gave you that gifted tongue of yours, and set it between your teeth, to make known your true meaning to us, not to be rattled like a muffin man's bell.
There is no heroic poem in the world but is at bottom a biography, the life of a man.
No man is born without ambitious worldly desires.
There is a majesty and mystery in nature, take her as you will. The essence of poetry comes breathing to a mind that feels from every province of her empire.
A good book is the purest essence of a human soul.
For the superior morality, of which we hear so much, we too would desire to be thankful: at the same time, it were but blindness to deny that this superior morality is properly rather an inferior criminality, produced not by greater love of Virtue, but by greater perfection of Police; and of that far subtler and stronger Police, called Public Opinion.
Histories are a kind of distilled newspapers.
Silence, the great Empire of Silence: higher than all stars; deeper than the Kingdom of Death! It alone is great; all else is small.
Silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves together; that at length they may emerge, full-formed and majestic, into the daylight of Life, which they are thenceforth to rule.
Literature is the thought of thinking souls.
Speech is great, but silence is greater.
The actual well seen is ideal.
The whole past is the procession of the present.
What is nature? Art thou not the living government of God? O Heaven, is it in very deed He then that ever speaks through thee, that lives and loves in thee, that lives and loves in me?
He who would write heroic poems should make his whole life a heroic poem.
There is but one thing without honor, smitten with eternal barrenness, inability to do or to be,-insincerity, unbelief.
I never heard tell of any clever man that came of entirely stupid people.
A mind that has seen, and suffered, and done, speaks to us of what it has tried and conquered.
Show me the man you honor; I know by that symptom, better than by any other, what kind of man you yourself are. For you show me there what your ideal of manhood is; what kind of man you long inexpressibly to be.
We are to remember what an umpire Nature is; what a greatness, composure of depth and tolerance there is in her. You take wheat to cast into the Earth's bosom; your wheat may be mixed with chaff, chopped straw, barn-sweepings, dust and all imaginable rubbish; no matter: you cast it into the kind just Earth; she grows the wheat, - the whole rubbish she silently absorbs, shrouds it in, says nothing of the rubbish.
I know so little about any history. How little do I know even about the history of myself.
I grow daily to honour facts more and more, and theory less and less. A fact, it seems to me, is a great thing; a sentence printed, if not by God, then at least by the Devil.
For, strictly considered, what is all Knowledge too but recorded Experience, and a product of History; of which, therefore, Reasoning and Belief, no less than Action and Passion, are essential materials?
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