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Moonlight is sculpture.
– Nathaniel Hawthorne
Life is made up of marble and mud.
The founders of a new colony, whatever Utopia of human virtue and happiness they might originally project, have invariably recognized it among their earliest practical necessities to allot a portion of the virgin soil as a cemetery, and another portion as the site of a prison.
We must not always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest.
In our nature, however, there is a provision, alike marvelous and merciful, that the sufferer should never know the intensity of what he endures by its present torture, but chiefly by the pang that rankles after it.
Every individual has a place to fill in the world and is important in some respect whether he chooses to be so or not.
Time flies over us, but leaves its shadow behind.
Accuracy is the twin brother of honesty; inaccuracy, of dishonesty.
What we call real estate – the solid ground to build a house on – is the broad foundation on which nearly all the guilt of this world rests.
Our most intimate friend is not he to whom we show the worst, but the best of our nature.
Happiness in this world, when it comes, comes incidentally. Make it the object of pursuit, and it leads us a wild-goose chase, and is never attained. Follow some other object, and very possibly we may find that we have caught happiness without dreaming of it.
Love, whether newly born, or aroused from a deathlike slumber, must always create sunshine, filling the heart so full of radiance, this it overflows upon the outward world.
The only sensible ends of literature are, first, the pleasurable toil of writing; second, the gratification of one’s family and friends; and lastly, the solid cash.
You can get assent to almost any proposition so long as you are not going to do anything about it.
It contributes greatly towards a man’s moral and intellectual health, to be brought into habits of companionship with individuals unlike himself, who care little for his pursuits, and whose sphere and abilities he must go out of himself to appreciate.
The greatest obstacle to being heroic is the doubt whether one may not be going to prove one’s self a fool; the truest heroism is to resist the doubt; and the profoundest wisdom, to know when it ought to be resisted, and when it be obeyed.
No man for any considerable period can wear one face to himself and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true.
A pure hand needs no glove to cover it.
Happiness is a butterfly, which when pursued, is always just beyond your grasp, but which, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.
All brave men love; for he only is brave who has affections to fight for, whether in the daily battle of life, or in physical contests.
A woman’s chastity consists, like an onion, of a series of coats.
A hero cannot be a hero unless in a heroic world.
Our Creator would never have made such lovely days, and have given us the deep hearts to enjoy them, above and beyond all thought, unless we were meant to be immortal.
Caresses, expressions of one sort or another, are necessary to the life of the affections as leaves are to the life of a tree. If they are wholly restrained, love will die at the roots.
Words – so innocent and powerless as they are, as standing in a dictionary, how potent for good and evil they become in the hands of one who knows how to combine them.
We sometimes congratulate ourselves at the moment of waking from a troubled dream; it may be so the moment after death.