Men Are Nothing Until They Are Excited.

Painting Myself For Others, I Have Painted My Inward Self With Colors Clearer Than My Original Ones. I Have No More Made My Book Than My Book Has Made Me--a Book Consubstantial With Its Author, Concerned With My Own Self, An Integral Part Of My Life; Not Concerned With Some Third-hand, Extraneous Purpose, Like All Other Books.

The Easy, Gentle, And Sloping Path . . . Is Not The Path Of True Virtue. It Demands A Rough And Thorny Road.

Que Sçais-je?" (what Do I Know?)

You Have Your Face Bare; I Am All Face.

I Care Not So Much What I Am To Others As What I Am To Myself. I Will Be Rich By Myself, And Not By Borrowing.