A rush of thoughts is the only conceivable prosperity that can come to us.
And striving to be Man, the worm Mounts through all the spires of form.
Is the parent better than the child into whom he has cast his ripened being? Whence, then, this worship of the past?
I am ready to die out of nature, and be born again into this new yet unapproachable America I have found in the West.
Souls are not saved in bundles.
Life is a festival only to the wise. Seen from the nook and chimneyside of prudence, it wears a ragged and dangerous front.