The reason for you complaint lies, it seems to me, in the constraint which your intellect imposes upon your imagination. Here I will make an observation, and illustrate it by an allegory. Apparently, it is not good-and indeed it hinders the creative work of the mind-if the if the intellect examines too closely the ideas pouring in, as it were, at the gates.

The gentlest man cannot live in peace if it does not please his wicked neighbor.

Not without a shudder may the human hand reach into the mysterious urn of destiny.

Chains of iron or of silk-both are chains.

Rarely do we arrive at the summit of truth without running into extremes; we have frequently to exhaust the part of error, and even of folly, before we work our way up to the noble goal of tranquil wisdom.

He that is over-cautious will accomplish but very little.

Joy all creatures drink At nature's bosoms.