I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas.

Many sensible things banished from high life find an asylum among the mob.

The dinner-hour is the summer of the day: full of sunshine, I grant; but not like the mellow autumn of supper.

All deep, earnest thinking is but the intrepid effort of the soul to keep the open independence of her sea, while the wildest winds of heaven and earth conspire to cast her on the treacherous, slavish shore.

It is not for man to follow the trail of truth too far, since by so doing he entirely loses the directing compass of his mind.

This divineness had that in it which, though commanding worship, at the same time enforced a certain nameless terror.

The stillness of the calm is awful. His voice begins to grow strange and portentous. He feels it in him like something swallowed too big for the esophagus. It keeps up a sort of involuntary interior humming in him, like a live beetle. His cranium is a dome full of reverberations. The hollows of his very bones are as whispering galleries. He is afraid to speak loud, lest he be stunned; like the man in the bass drum.