There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.

Ah, Bartleby! Ah, humanity!

Beneath those stars is a universe of gliding monsters.

A noble craft, but somehow a most melancholy! All noble things are touched with that.

The sailor is frankness, the landsman is finesse. Life is not a game with the sailor, demanding the long head--no intricate game of chess where few moves are made in straight-forwardness and ends are attained by indirection, an oblique, tedious, barren game hardly worth that poor candle burnt out in playing it.

Hell is an idea first born on an undigested apple dumpling.

A good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a good thing.