I think I will do nothing for a long time but listen, And accrue what I hear into myself...and let sound contribute toward me.

All beauty comes from beautiful blood and a beautiful brain.

I see that I am to wait for what will be exhibited by death.

From this hour I ordain myself loos'd of limits and imaginary lines.

Silence? What can New York-noisy, roaring, rumbling, tumbling, bustling, story, turbulent New York-have to do with silence? Amid the universal clatter, the incessant din of business, the all swallowing vortex of the great money whirlpool-who has any, even distant, idea of the profound repose......of silence?

I find no sweeter fat than sticks to my own bones.

Why who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know nothing else but miracles, whether they be animals feeding in the fields, Or, birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These, with the rest, one and all, are to me, miracles.