Something is wanting to science until it has been humanised.

A poem, a sentence, causes us to see ourselves. I be, and I see my being, at the same time.

One of the illusions of life is that the present hour is not the critical, decisive one.

The revelation of thought takes men out of servitude into freedom.

The vanishing, volatile froth of the present which any shadow will alter, any thought blow away, any event annihilate, is every moment converted into the adamantine.

Meek young men grow up in libraries, believing it their duty to accept the views which Cicero, which Locke, which Bacon, have given, forgetful that Cicero, Locke, and Bacon were only young men in libraries, when they wrote these books.

The young man reveres men of genius, because, to speak truly, they are more himself than he is.