We fly to beauty as an asylum from the terrors of finite nature.

A man in a cave or in a camp, a nomad, will die with no more estate than the wolf or the horse leaves.

Private, accidental, confidential conversation breeds thought. Clubs produce oftener words.

A man is reputed to have thought and eloquence; he cannot, for all that, say a word to his cousin or his uncle. They accuse his silence with as much reason as they would blame the insignificance of a dial in the shade. In the sun it will mark the hour. Among those who enjoy his thought, he will regain his tongue.

And last of all, high over thought, in the world of morals, Fate appears as vindicator, levelling the high, lifting the low, requiring justice in man, and always striking soon or late when justice is not done. What is useful will last, what is hurtful will sink.

[D]ivine Providence... keeps the universe open in every direction to the soul.

The shot heard round the world.