Nature is a mutable cloud which is always and never the same.

Is the parent better than the child into whom he has cast his ripened being? Whence, then, this worship of the past?

An answer in words is delusive; it is really no answer to the questions you ask.

We must be our own before we can be another's.

Nature is an endless combination and repetition of a very few laws. She hums the old well-known air through innumerable variations.

As gas-light is found to be the best nocturnal police, so the universe protects itself by pitiless publicity.

We pass for what we are.