The sea is masculine, the type of active strength. Look, what egg-shells are drifting all over it, each one, like ours, filled with men in ecstasies of terror, alternating with cockney conceit, as the sea is rough or smooth. Is this sad-colored circle an eternal cemetery?

Style is only the frame to hold your thoughts. It is like the sash of a window; if heavy, it will obscure the light.

We denote this primary wisdom as Intuition, whilst all later teachings are tuitions.

No man gains credit for his cowardly courtesies.

Whatever appeals to the imagination, by transcending the ordinary limits of human ability, wonderfully encourages and liberates us.

Have mountains, and waves, and skies, no significance but what we consciously give them, when we employ them as emblems of our thoughts?

A man's library is a sort of harem.