Our Occasional Madness Is Less Wonderful Than

Half Our Standards Come From Our First Masters, And The Other Half From Our First Loves.

Reason And Happiness Are Like Other Flowers; They Wither When Plucked.

A String Of Excited, Fugitive, Miscellaneous Pleasures Is Not Happiness; Happiness Resides In Imaginative Reflection And Judgment, When The Picture Of One's Life, Or Of Human Life, As It Truly Has Been Or Is, Satisfies The Will, And Is Gladly Accepted.

Tomes Of Aesthetic Criticism Hang On A Few Moments Of Real Delight And Intuition.

Every Real Object Must Cease To Be What It Seemed, And None Could Ever Be What The Whole Soul Desired.