We Possess Only The Happiness We Able

Nothing In The Whole World Is So Athirst For Beauty As The Soul, Nor Is There Anything To Which Beauty Clings So Readily.

It Is The Evil That Lies In Ourselves That Is Ever Least Tolerant Of The Evil That Dwells Within Others.

To Be Happy Is Only To Have Freed One's Soul From The Unrest Of Unhappiness.

Silence Is The Element In Which Great Things Fashion Themselves Together ... Speech Is Too Often ... The Act Of Quite Stifling And Suspending Thought, So That There Is None To Conceal ... Speech Is Of Time, Silence Is Of Eternity ... It Is Idle To Think That, By Means Of Words, Any Real Communication Can Ever Pass From One Man To Another.

Is Not Every Action Of Hamlet Induced By A Fanatical Impulse, Which Tells Him That Duty Consists In Revenge Alone? And Dose It Need Superhuman Efforts To Recognize That Revenge Never Can Be Duty? I Say Again That Hamlet Thinks Much, But That He Is By No Means Wise.