We Make An Idol Of Truth Itself;

Curiosity Is Only Vanity. Most Frequently We Wish Not To Know, But To Talk. We Would Not Take A Sea Voyage For The Sole Pleasure Of Seeing Without Hope Of Ever Telling.

Opinion Is, As It Were, The Queen Of The World, But Force Is Its Tyrant.

Everything That Is Written Merely To Please The Author Is Worthless.

We Feel Neither Extreme Heat Nor Extreme Cold; Qualities That Are In Excess Are So Much At Variance With Our Feelings That They Are Impalpable: We Do Not Feel Them, Though We Suffer From Their Effects.

Eloquence Is The Painting Of Thought.