Solitude has a healing consoler, friend, companion: it is work.
Truly, one gets easier accustomed to a silken bed than to a sack of leaves.
What is all our knowledge worth? We do not even know what the weather will be tomorrow.
Imagination is the mightiest despot.
Why has no religion this command before all others: Thou shalt work?
The vain being is the really solitary being.