Conversation Is A Game Of Circles.

Beauty Is The Moment Of Transition, As If The Form Were Just Ready To Flow Into Other Forms.

In The Woods, Too, A Man Casts Off His Years, As The Snake His Slough, And At What Period Soever Of Life, Is Always A Child. In The Woods Is Perpetual Youth. Within These Plantations Of God A Decorum And Sanctity Reign, A Perennial Festival Is Dressed, And The Guest Sees Not How He Should Tire Of Them In A Thousand Years. In The Woods We Return To Reason And Faith.

Infancy Is The Perpetual Messiah, Which Comes Into The Arms Of Fallen Men, And Pleads With Them To Return To Paradise.

He That Writes To Himself Writes To An Eternal Public.

The Finest Wits Have Their Sediment.