The Good Rain, Like A Bad Preacher,

The Wave Of Evil Washes All Our Institutions Alike.

In Different Hours, A Man Represents Each Of Several Of His Ancestors, As If There Were Seven Or Eight Of Us Rolled Up In Each Man's Skin, - Seven Or Eight Ancestors At Least, And They Constitute The Variety Of Notes For That New Piece Of Music Which His Life Is.

Whatever Is Old Corrupts, And The Past Turns To Snakes.

The Mind Does Not Create What It Perceives, Any More Than The Eye Creates The Rose.

Honor And Fortune Exist For Him Who Always Recognizes The Neighborhood Of The Great, Always Feels Himself In The Presence Of High Causes.