Virtue Has Her Heroes Too As Well

Individual Character Is In The Right That Is In Strict Consistence With Itself. Self-contradiction Is The Only Wrong.

Man Is Made Of The Wholly Common, And Custom Is His Nurse; Woe Then To Them Who Lay Irreverent Hands On His Old House-furniture, The Dear Inheritance From His Forefathers: For Time Consecrates, And What Is Gray With Age Becomes Religion.

Rigor Pushed Too Far Is Sure To Miss Its Aim, However Good, As The Bow Snaps That Is Bent Too Stiffly.

I Feel An Army In My Fist.

Love Can Sun The Realms Of Night.