We are happy when for everything inside us there is a corresponding something outside us.

While they danced they came over them the weariness with the world, the melancholy, the pity one for the other, which is the exultation of love.

Things thought too long can be no longer thought, For beauty dies of beauty, worth of worth, And ancient lineaments are blotted out.

Englishmen are babes in philosophy and so prefer faction-fighting to the labour of its unfamiliar thought.

Now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Not a man alive has so much luck that he can play with it.

It was my first meeting with a philosophy that confirmed my vague speculations and seemed at once logical and boundless.