Follow your genius closely enough, and it will not fail to show you a fresh prospect every hour.
Henry David Thoreau
Some suggestions for you :
Most men have learned to read to serve a paltry convenience, as they have learned to cipher in order to keep accounts and not be cheated in trade; but of reading as a noble intellectual exercise they know little or nothing.
There can be no very black melancholy to him who lives in the midst of Nature and has his senses still.
There never was and is not likely soon to be a nation of philosophers, nor am I certain it is desirable that there should be.
Thu luxury of one class is counterbalanced by the indigence of another.
I too had woven a kind of basket of a delicate texture, but I had not made it worth any one's while to buy them. Yet not the less, in my case, did I think it worth my while to weave them, and instead of studying how to make it worth men's while to buy my baskets, I studied rather how to avoid the necessity of selling them.
In any weather, at any hour of the day or night, I have been anxious to improve the nick of time, and notch it on my stick too; to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line.
When we consider what, to use the words of the catechism, is the chief end of man, and what are the true necessaries and means of life, it appears as if men had deliberately chosen the common mode of living because they preferred it to any other. Yet they honestly think there is no choice left.
Man wanted a home, a place for warmth, or comfort, first of physical warmth, then the warmth of the affections.
The day is an epitome of the year. The night is the winter, the morning and evening are the spring and fall, and the noon is the summer.
It's not enough to be busy; so are the ants. The question is: what are we busy about?
Every man is the builder of a temple, called his body, to the god he worships, after a style purely his own, nor can he get off by hammering marble instead. We are all sculptors and painters, and our material is our own flesh and blood and bones. Any nobleness begins at once to refine a man's features, any meanness or sensuality to imbrute them.
What sort of space is that which separates a man from his fellows and makes him solitary? I have found that no exertion of the legs can bring two minds much nearer to one another.