Clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath.

Other people have faces; Susan and Jinny have faces; they are here. Their world is the real world. The things they lift are heavy. They say Yes, they say No; whereas I shift and change and am seen through in a second. If they meet a housemaid she looks at them without laughing. But she laughs at me. They know what to say if spoken to. They laugh really; they get angry really; while I have to look first and do what other people do when they have done it.

I need silence, and to be alone and to go out, and to save one hour to consider what has happened to my world, what death has done to my world.

The word-coining genius, as if thought plunged into a sea of words and came up dripping.

But the close withdrew: the hand softened. It was over-- the moment.

Walden - all his books, indeed - are packed with subtle, conflicting, and very fruitful discoveries. They are not written to prove something in the end. They are written as the Indians turn down twigs to mark their path through the forest. He cuts his way through life as if no one had ever taken that road before, leaving these signs for those who come after, should they care to see which way he went.

Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.