Work cannot convey the almost voluptuous sweetness of the feelings experienced ... in solitude.

The unsuspected is the daily fare of the traveler in Thibet.

As a stoic I must despise injury or, rather, I must not feel it, must not be affected by it so that it cannot violate the freedom of my soul.

Work cannot convey the almost voluptuous sweetness of the feelings experienced ... in solitude.

Suffering raises up those souls that are truly great; it is only small souls that are made mean-spirited by it.

Nature has a language of its own, or maybe those who have lived long in solitude read in it their own unconscious inner feelings and mysterious foreknowledge.

Neglecting small things under the pretext of wanting to accomplish large ones is the excuse of a coward.