No philosophers so thoroughly comprehend us as dogs and horses.

...The silent reminiscence of hardships departed, is sweeter than the presence of delight.

Surely no mere mortal who has at all gone down into himself will ever pretend that his slightest thought or act solely originates in his own defined identity.

My means are sane, my motives and my object mad.

Beneath those stars is a universe of gliding monsters.

Whatever has made, or does make, or may make music, should be held sacred as the golden bridle-bit of the Shah of Persia's horse,and the golden hammer, with which his hoofs are shod.

The western spirit is, or will yet be (for no other is, or can be) the true American one.