I have no intention of becoming a shorthand author.
One of the sublimest things in the world is plain truth.
Genius is but fine observation strengthened by fixity of purpose.
To live On means not yours--be brave in silks and laces, Gallant in steeds; splendid in banquets; all Not yours. Given, uninherited, unpaid for; This is to be a trickster; and to filch Men's art and labour, which to them is wealth, Life, daily bread;--quitting all scores with "friend, You're troublesome!" Why this, forgive me, Is what, when done with a less dainty grace, Plain folks call "Theft.
As it has been finely expressed, "Principle is a passion for truth. " And as an earlier and homelier writer hath it, "The truths we believe in are the pillars of our world.
Happy is the man who hath never known what it is to taste of fame -to have it is a purgatory, to want it is a Hell!
Reading without purpose is sauntering not exercise.
The existence of God is not logically necessary, and yet, on the basis of some profound peculiar empirical order in the universe, it seems that He exists as the ultimate uncreated Being, implying a paradox, as no logically unnecessary entity can be uncreated. This paradox is the ultimate question asked by God, who is nothing but the ultimate questioner.
Remind people that profit is the difference between revenue and expense. This makes you look smart.
Personally I like to imagine something the size of a baby hippo, the color of a week-old boiled potato, that lives by itself, in the dark, in a double-wide on the outskirts of Topeka. It's covered with eyes and it sweats constantly. The sweat runs into those eyes and makes them sting. It has no mouth, no genitals, and can only express its mute extremes of murderous rage and infantile desire by changing the channels on a universal remote. Or by voting in presidential elections.
What exactly is success? For me it is to be found not in applause, but in the satisfaction of feeling that one is realizing one's ideal.