Poetry is the disease of the brain.

What it values most of all is the sum total of events and the advance of civilization, which carries individuals along with it; but, indifferent to details, it cares less to have them real than noble or, rather, grand and complete.

The human mind, I believe, cares for the True only in the general character of an epoch.

Every man has seen the wall that limits his mind.

Honour is manly decency. The shame of being found wanting in it means everything to us. Is this, then, the indefinable, the sacred thing?

Of what use were the arts if they were only the reproduction and the imitation of life?

We live in an age of universal investigation, and of exploration of the sources of all movements.