Men talk as if victory were something fortunate. Work is victory.
There is a mortifying experience in particular, which does not fail to wreak itself also in the general history; I mean "the foolish face of praise," the forced smile which we put on in company where we do not feel at ease, in answer to conversation which does not interest us. The muscles, not spontaneously moved but moved, by a low usurping wilfulness, grow tight about the outline of the face, with the most disagreeable sensation.
Every violation of truth is not only a sort of suicide in the liar, but is a stab at the health of human society.
All science has one aim, namely, to find a theory of nature.
I am ashamed to think how easily we capitulate to badges and names, to large societies and dead institutions.
Language is the archives of history.
The hero is he who is immovably centered.
All great men come out of the middle classes.
Poetry must be as new as foam and as old as the rock.
We live amid surfaces, and the true art of life is to skate well on them
Wealth is in applications of mind to nature; and the art of getting rich consists not in industry, much less in saving, but in a better order, in timeliness, in being at the right spot.
The cheapness of man is every day's tragedy.
The universe is represented in every one of it's particles. Everything is made of one hidden stuff. The world globes itself in a drop of dew. The true doctrine of omnipresence is that God appears with all His parts in every moss and cobweb.
The man who renounces himself, comes to himself.
And yet--it is not beauty that inspires the deepest passion. Beauty without grace is the hook without the bait. Beauty, without expression, tires.
As long as our civilization is essentially one of property, of fences, of exclusiveness, it will be mocked by delusions.
Who shall set a limit to the influence of a human being?
There are some men above grief and some men below it.
Nothing great ever happened without enthusiasm.
In art, the hand can never execute anything higher than the heart can imagine.
It happens to us once or twice in a lifetime to be drunk with some book which probably has some extraordinary relative power to intoxicate us and none other; and having exhausted that cup of enchantment we go groping in libraries all our years afterwards in the hope of being in Paradise again.
Do not you see that every misfortune is misconduct; that every honour is desert; that every effort is an insolence of your own?...You carry your fortune in your own hand.
Of course, money will do after its kind, and will steadily work to unspiritualize and unchurch the people to whom it was bequeathed.
From within or from behind, a light shines through us upon things, and makes us aware that we are nothing, but the light is all.
There is more difference in the quality of our pleasures than in the amount.
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