Evermore in the world is this marvelous balance of beauty and disgust, magnificence and rats.

Almost all people descend to meet. All association must be a compromise, and, what is worst, the very flower and aroma of the flower of each of the beautiful natures disappears as they approach each other.

It is a luxury to be understood.

How can we speak of the action of the mind under any divisions, as of its knowledge, of its ethics, of its works, and so forth, since it melts will into perception, knowledge into act? Each becomes the other. Itself alone is.

Everything in creation has its appointed painter or poet and remains in bondage like the princess in the fairy tale 'til its appropriate liberator comes to set it free.

When nature has work to be done, she creates a genius to do it.

Friendship, like the immortality of the soul, is too good to be believed.