In a world of infinite choice people are struggling to figure out what to do.

The first questions are always to be asked, and the wisest doctor is gravelled by the inquisitiveness of a child.

Every really able man, in whatever direction he works - a man of large affairs, an inventor, a statesman, an orator, a poet, a painter - if you talk sincerely with him, considers his work, however much admired, as far short of what it should be. What is this Better, this flying Ideal, but the perpetual promise of his Creator?

Every man is an impossibility until he is born.

It really is considered one of the blessings of previous mates which you could manage being silly with them.

A man cannot speak but he judges himself. With his will or against his will he draws his portrait to the eye of his companions by every word. Every opinion reacts on him who utters it. It is a threadball thrown at a mark, but the other end remains on the thrower

The vulgar call good fortune that which really is produced by the calculations of genius.