Whence, then, this worship of the past? The centuries are conspirators against the sanity and authority of the soul.

The world is all gates, all opportunities, strings of tension waiting to be struck.

For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind.

The Same, the Same: friend and foe are of one stuff; the ploughman, the plough, and the furrow, are of one stuff; and the stuff is such, and so much, that the variations of form are unimportant.

We are by nature observers, and thereby learners. That is our permanent state.

As every man is hunted by his own daemon, vexed by his own disease, this checks all his activity.

We lie in the lap of immense intelligence.