To know what you prefer instead of humbly saying Amen to what the world tells you ought to prefer, is to have kept your soul alive.

For the forest takes away from you all excuse to die. There is nothing here to cabin or thwart your free desires. Here all impudences of the brawling world reach you no more.

He is not dead, this friend; not dead, Gone some few, trifling steps ahead, And nearer to the end; So that you, too, once past the bend, Shall meet again, as face to face, this friend You fancy dead.

There is no foreign land; it is the traveller only that is foreign.

Some day...after I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I cannot tell you.

The web, then, or the pattern, a web at once sensuous and logical, an elegant and pregnant texture: that is style, that is the foundation of the art of literature.

We got together in a few days a company of the toughest old salts imaginable--not pretty to look at, but fellows, by their faces, of the most indomitable spirit.