Our high respect for a well-read man is praise enough for literature. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

So each man, like each plant, has his parasites. A strong, astringent, bilious nature has more truculent enemies than the slugs and moths that fret my leaves. Such a one has curculios, borers, knife-worms; a swindler ate him first, then a client, then a quack, then smooth, plausible gentlemen, bitter and selfish as Moloch.

All loss, all pain, is particular; the universe remains to the heart unhurt.

It is not length of life, but depth of life.

The new statement is always hated by the old, and, to those dwelling in the old, comes like an abyss of skepticism.

Genius has infused itself into nature. It indicates itself by a small excess of good, a small balance in brute facts always favorable to the side of reason.

But we need not fear that we can lose any thing by the progress of the soul. The soul may be trusted to the end.