Our very walking is an incessant falling; a falling and a catching of ourselves before we come actually to the pavement. It is emblematic of all things a man does.

We call that fire of the black thunder-cloud "electricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out of glass and silk: but what is it? What made it? Whence comes it? Whither goes it?

A laugh, to be joyous, must flow from a joyous heart, for without kindness, there can be no true joy.

Force, force, everywhere force; we ourselves a mysterious force in the centre of that. "There is not a leaf rotting on the highway but has Force in it: how else could it rot?" [As used in his time, by the word force, Carlyle means energy.]

Do the duty which lies nearest to you, the second duty will then become clearer.

Histories are a kind of distilled newspapers.

Quackery gives birth to nothing; gives death to all things.