The fine arts once divorcing themselves from truth are quite certain to fall mad, if they do not die.

Writing is a dreadful labor, yet not so dreadful as Idleness.

It is the first of all problems for a man to find out what kind of work he is to do in this universe.

A man--be the heavens ever praised!--is sufficient for himself.

No person was every rightly understood until they had been first regarded with a certain feeling, not of tolerance, but of sympathy.

If Jesus Christ were to come today, people would not even crucify him. They would ask him to dinner, and hear what he had to say, and make fun of it.

How indestructibly the good grows, and propagates itself, even among the weedy entanglements of evil.