We are born believing. A man bears beliefs as a tree bears apples.
Dreams have a poetic integrity and truth. This limbo and dust-hole of thought is presided over by a certain reason, too.
There is always a certain meanness in the argument of conservatism, joined with a certain superiority in its fact.
We thirst for approbation, yet cannot forgive the approver.
An artist spends himself like the crayon in his hand, till he is all gone.
When I go into the garden with a spade and dig a bed I feel such an exhilaration and health that I discover that I have been defrauding myself all this time in letting others do for me what I should have done with my own hands.