Man's life is a progress, not a station.
The remedy for all blunders, the cure of blindness, the cure of crime, is love.
You are constantly invited to be what you are.
The divine gift is ever the instant life, which receives and uses and creates, and can well bury the old in the omnipotency with which Nature decomposes all her harvest for recomposition.
You cannot sincerely try to help another without helping yourself
[on Thoreau:] For not a particle of respect had he to the opinions of any man or body of men, but homage solely to truth itself.