I know that I am what I am. But I am not sure what I am.
Posterity--the forlorn child of nineteenth century optimism--grows ever harder to conceive.
Great men wait for the right moment to abandon caution. The rest of us abandon it when impatience becomes too much for us.
My mother wanted to shrink from my clinging, but did not.
Do not wait for a reason to be happy.
When I get the point, I often don't know what to do with it.