All deep things are song. It seems somehow the very central essence of us, song; as if all the rest were but wrappages and hulls!

Silence is more eloquent than words.

Is not cant the materia prima of the devil, from which all falsehoods, imbecilities, abominations, body themselves, from which no true thing can come? For cant is itself the properly a double-distilled lie, the second power of a lie.

A battle is a terrible conjugation of the verb to kill: I kill, thou killest, he kills, we kill, they kill, all kill.

No violent extreme endures.

He who cannot withal keep his mind to himself cannot practice any considerable thing whatsoever.

Hardened round us, encasing wholly every notion we form is a wrapping of traditions, hearsay's, and mere words.