The animal merely makes a bed, which he warms with his body, in a sheltered place; but man, having discovered fire, boxes up someair in a spacious apartment, and warms that.... Thus he goes a step or two beyond instinct, and saves a little time for the fine arts.

Write while the heat is in you.

Every path but your own is the path of fate. Keep on your own track, then.

We never conceive the greatness of our fates.

We perceive and are affected by changes too subtle to be described.

I think that we may safely trust a good deal more than we do. We may waive just so much care of ourselves as we honestly bestow elsewhere.

Decay and disease are often beautiful, like the pearly tear of the shellfish and the hectic glow of consumption.