The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secrets of things.

The eye may see for the hand, but not for the mind.

Maturity is when all of your mirrors turn into windows.

It is not enough to be busy. So are the ants. The question is: What are we busy about?

If the machine of government is of such a nature that it requires you to be the agent of injustice to another, then, I say, break the law.

There never was and is not likely soon to be a nation of philosophers, nor am I certain it is desirable that there should be.

Still we live meanly, like ants; though the fable tells us that we were long ago changed into men; like pygmies we fight with cranes; it is error upon error, and clout upon clout, and our best virtue has for its occasion a superfluous and evitable wretchedness. Our life is frittered away by detail.