The Soul On Earth Is An Immortal

The Ingenuity Of Self-deception Is Inexhaustible.

Nothing Is More Common Than To Mistake The Sign For The Thing Itself; Nor Is Any Practice More Frequent Than That Of Endeavoring To Acquire The Exterior Mark, Without Once Thinking To Labor After The Interior Grace.

If I Wanted To Punish An Enemy, It Should Be By Fastening On Him The Trouble Of Constantly Hating Somebody.

The World Does Not Require So Much To Be Informed As To Be Reminded.

The Soul On Earth Is An Immortal Guest, Compelled To Starve At An Unreal Feast: A Spark, Which Upward Tends By Nature's Force: A Stream Diverted From Its Parent Source; A Drop Dissever'd From The Boundless Sea; A Moment, Parted From Eternity; A Pilgrim Panting For The Rest To Come; An Exile, Anxious For His Native Home.