Every man has seen the wall that limits his mind.
What is a great life if not a youthful idea executed by a man of mature years.
Honour is manly decency. The shame of being found wanting in it means everything to us. Is this, then, the indefinable, the sacred thing?
Poetry is the disease of the brain.
What is a great life but a youthful intention carried out in maturity?
Just as we descend into our consciences to judge of actions which our minds can not weigh, can we not also search in ourselves for the feeling which gives birth to forms of thought, always vague and cloudy?