We are always getting ready to live but never living.

A man is the prisoner of his power. A topical memory makes him an almanac; a talent for debate, disputant; skill to get money makes him a miser, that is, a beggar. Culture reduces these inflammations by invoking the aid of other powers against the dominant talent, and by appealing to the rank of powers. It watches success.

Intellect is void of affection and sees an object as it stands in the light of science, cool and disengaged. The intellect goes out of the individual, floats over its own personality, and regards it as a fact, and not as I and mine.

It never was in the power of any man or any community to call the arts into being. They come to serve his actual wants, never to please his fancy.

We all wish to be of importance in one way or another. The child coughs with might and main, since it has no other claim on the company.

Every spirit makes its house, and we can give a shrewd guess from the house to the inhabitant.

These times of ours are series and full of calamity, but all times are essentially alike. As soon as there is life there is danger.