Our beliefs and our attention are the same fact.

There is no worse lie than a truth misunderstood bu those who hear it.

The mind, in short, works on the data it receives very much as the sculptor works on his block of stone.

History is a bath of blood.

Where is it, this present? It has melted in our grasp, fled ere we could touch it, gone in the instant of becoming.

There is an organic affinity between joyousness and tenderness, and their companionship in the saintly life need in no way occasion surprise.

So with the man who has daily inured himself to habits of concentrated attention, energetic volition, and self-denial in unnecessary things. He will stand like a tower when everything rocks around him, and when his softer fellow-mortals are winnowed like chaff in the blast.