There is hope in extravagance, there is none in routine.

A man is a method, a progressive arrangement; a selecting principle, gathering his like to him; wherever he goes.

I shun father and mother and wife and brother, when my genius calls me.

We come to our own and would make friends with matter, which the ambitious chatter of the schools would persuade us to despise. We can never part with it; the mind loves its old home: as water to our thirst, so is rock, the ground, to our eyes, and hands, and feet. It is firm water: it is cold flame: what health, what affinity!

Could Shakespeare give a theory of Shakespeare?

A man is like a bit of Labrador spar, which has no luster as you turn it in your hand, until you come to a particular angle; then it shows deep and beautiful colors.

An ounce of action is worth a ton of theory.