Every man is wanted, and no man is wanted much.

Nothing is dead: men feign themselves dead, and endure mock funerals and mournful obituaries, and there they stand looking out ofthe window, sound and well, in some new and strange disguise.

Heaven is large, and affords space for all modes of love and fortitude.

It never was in the power of any man or any community to call the arts into being. They come to serve his actual wants, never to please his fancy.

All sensible people are selfish, and nature is tugging at every contract to make the terms of it fair.

Under every deep a lower deep opens.

Culture is the suggestion, from certain best thoughts, that a man has a range of affinities through which he can modulate the violence of any master-tones that have a droning preponderance in his scale, and succor him against himself. Culture redresses this imbalance, puts him among equals and superiors, revives the delicious sense of sympathy, and warns him of the dangers of solitude and repulsion.