The only joy in his being mine, is that the not mine is mine.

When I behold a rich landscape, it is less to my purpose to recite correctly the order and superposition of the strata, than to know why all thought of multitude is lost in a tranquil sense of unity.

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.

Money often costs too much, and power and pleasure are not cheap.

I dream of a better tomorrow, where chickens can cross the road and not be questioned about their motives.

The inmost in due time becomes the outmost.

The populace drags down the gods to their own level.