He Is A Good Man, Who Can

After Thirty, A Man Wakes Up Sad Every Morning, Excepting Perhaps Five Or Six, Until The Day Of His Death.

The Reverence For The Deeds Of Our Ancestors Is A Treacherous Sentiment. Their Merit Was Not To Reverence The Old, But To Honor The Present Moment; And We Falsely Make Them Excuses Of The Very Habit Which They Hated And Defied.

The Common Experience Is, That The Man Fits Himself As Well As He Can To The Customary Details Of That Work Or Trade He Falls Into, And Tends It As A Dog Turns A Spit. Then He Is Part Of The Machine He Moves; The Man Is Lost.

A Man Should Have A Farm Or A Mechanical Craft For His Culture. We Must Have A Basis For Our Higher Accomplishments, Our Delicate Entertainments Of Poetry And Philosophy, In The Work Of Our Hands.

A Hero Is A Man Who Is Afraid To Run Away.