No man can claim to usurp more than a few cubic feet of the audibilities of a public room. . . .

Everyone believes that he abounds in wisdom, but is short of money.

What is odious but . . . people . . . who toast their feet on the register. . . .

The soul exists partly in eternity and partly in time.

Books that distribute things... with as daring a freedom as we use in dreams, put us on our feet again.

The fate of the poor shepherd, who, blinded and lost in the snow-storm, perishes in a drift within a few feet of his cottage door, is an emblem of the state of man.

There is a moment in the history of every nation, when . . . the perceptive powers reach their ripeness and have not yet become microscopic: so that man, at that instant . . . with his feet still planted on the immense forces of night, converses by his eyes and brain with solar and stellar creation.