A Cheerful Intelligent Face Is The End

When A Man Does Not Write His Poetry, It Escapes By Other Vents Through Him.

Our Desires Presage The Capacities Within Us; They Are Harbingers Of What We Shall Be Able To Accomplish. What We Can Do And Want To Do Is Projected In Our Imagination, Quite Outside Ourselves, And Into The Future. We Are Attracted To What Is Already Ours In Secret. Thus Passionate Anticipation Transforms What Is Indeed Possible Into Dreamt-for Reality.

The Objection To Conforming To Usages That Have Become Dead To You Is, That It Scatters Your Force.

The Finest And Noblest Ground On Which People Can Live Is Truth; The Real With The Real; A Ground On Which Nothing Is Assumed.

How We Hate This Solemn Ego That Accompanies The Learned, Like A Double, Wherever He Goes.