Even in the meanest sorts of labor, the whole soul of a man is composed into a kind of real harmony the instant he sets himself to work.
Isolation is the sum total of wretchedness to a man.
Virtue is like health: the harmony of the whole man.
Intellect is the soul of man, the only immortal part of him.
One monster there is in the world, the idle man.
Innumerable are the illusions and legerdemain-tricks of custom: but of all of these, perhaps the cleverest is her knack of persuading us that the miraculous, by simple repetition, ceases to be miraculous.