For, the sense of being which in calm hours rises, we know not how, in the soul, is not diverse from things, from space, from light, from time, from man, but one with them, and proceeds obviously from the same source whence their life and being also proceed. We first share the life by which things exist, and afterwards see them as appearances in nature, and forget that we have shared their cause. Here is the fountain of action and of thought.

Men admire the man who can organize their wishes and thoughts in stone and wood and steel and brass.

For everything you gain, you lose something.

O Lord! Unhappy is the man whom man can make unhappy.

The art of sculpture is long ago perished to any real effect... it is the game of a rude and youthful people, and not the manly labour of a wise and spiritual nation.

I may say it of our preposterous use of books,--He knew not what to do, and so he read.

The soul knows no persons.