Let a man once overcome his selfish terror at his own finitude, and his finitude itself is, in one sense, overcome.

The Fates, like an absent-minded printer, seldom allow a single line to stand perfect and unmarred.

A sanctity hangs about the sources of our being, whether physical, social, or imaginary.

To most people, I fancy, the stars are beautiful; but if you asked why, they would be at a loss to reply, until they remembered what they had heard about astronomy, and the great size and distance and possible habitation of those orbs. ... [We] persuade ourselves that the power of the starry heavens lies in the suggestion of astronomical facts.

It takes patience to appreciate domestic bliss; volatile spirits prefer unhappiness.

The lover knows much more about absolute good and universal beauty than any logician or theologian, unless the latter, too, be lovers in disguise.

To condemn spontaneous and delightful occupations because they are useless for self-preservation shows an uncritical prizing of life irrespective of its content.