We are not born all at once, but by bits. The body first, and the spirit later; and the birth and growth of the spirit, in those who are attentive to their own inner life, are slow and exceedingly painful. Our mothers are racked with the pains of our physical birth; we ourselves suffer the longer pains of our spiritual growth.

Among the liveliest of my memories are those of eating and drinking; and I would sooner give up some of my delightful remembered walks, green trees, cool skies, and all, than to lose my images of suppers eaten on Sabbath evenings at the end of those walks.

Such creatures of accident are we, liable to a thousand deaths before we are born. But once we are here, we may create our own world, if we choose.

A long past vividly remembered is like a heavy garment that clings to your limbs when you would run.

What we get in steerage is not the refuse, but the sinew and bone of all the nations.

The past was only my cradle, and now it cannot hold me, because I am grown too big.

I have so little mastered the art of tranquil living that wherever I go I trail storm clouds of drama around me.