What others think of us would be of little moment did it not when known so deeply tinge what we think of ourselves.
Our judgments judge us, and nothing reveals us, exposes our weaknesses, more ingeniously than the attitude of pronouncing upon our fellows.
The folly of mistaking a paradox for a discovery, a metaphor for a proof, a torrent of verbiage for a spring of capital truths, and oneself for an oracle, is inborn in us.
The universe is built on a plan the profound symmetry of which is somehow present in the inner structure of our intellect.
We are enriched by our reciprocate differences.
To write regular verses destroys an infinite number of fine possibilities, but at the same time it suggests a multitude of distant and totally unexpected thoughts.