I want death to find me planting my cabbages, but careless of death, and still more of my unfinished garden.

We trouble our life by thoughts about death, and our death by thoughts about life.

We are nothing but ceremony; ceremony carries us away, and we leave the substance of things; we hang on to the branches and abandon the trunk and body.

Hath God obliged himself not to exceed the bounds of our knowledge?

Is it reasonable that even the arts should take advantage of and profit by our natural stupidity and feebleness of mind?

We must learn to suffer what we cannot evade.

Love to his soul gave eyes; he knew things are not as they seem. The dream is his real life; the world around him is the dream.