No man ever followed his genius till it misled him.
What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary?
It is darker in the woods, even in common nights, than most suppose.
No man loses ever on a lower level by magnanimity on a higher.
The church is a sort of hospital for men's souls and as full of quackery as the hospital for their bodies.
I do not know how to distinguish between waking life and a dream. Are we not always living the life that we imagine we are?