How silent, how spacious, what room for all, yet without place to insert an atom--in graceful succession, in equal fullness, in balanced beauty, the dance of the hours goes forward still. Like an odor of incense, like a strain of music, like a sleep, it is inexact and boundless. It will not be dissected, nor unraveled, nor shown.

My life is not an apology, but a life.

I please myself with the graces of the winter scenery, and believe that we are as much touched by it as by the genial influences of summer.

No facts are to me sacred; none are profane; I simply experiment, an endless seeker, with no past at my back.

Numbers serve to discipline rhetoric. Without them it is too easy to follow flights of fancy, to ignore the world as it is and to remold it nearer the heart's desire.

Revolutions go not backward.

A new degree of intellectual power seems cheap at any price.