We Never Completely Comprehend Ourselves, But We

It Is Not Merely The Multiplicity Of Tints, The Gladness Of Tone, Or The Balminess Of The Air Which Delight In The Spring; It Is The Still Consecrated Spirit Of Hope, The Prophecy Of Happy Days Yet To Come; The Endless Variety Of Nature, With Presentiments Of Eternal Flowers Which Never Shall Fade, And Sympathy With The Blessedness Of The Ever-developing World.

I Was Still Blind, But Twinkling Stars Did Dance Throughout My Being's Limitless Expanse, Nothing Had Yet Drawn Close, Only At Distant Stages I Found Myself, A Mere Suggestion Sensed In Past And Future Ages.

You Are Alone With Everything You Love.

The Art Of Writing Books Is Not Yet Invented. But It Is At The Point Of Being Invented. Fragments Of This Nature Are Literary Seeds. There May Be Many An Infertile Grain Among Them: Nevertheless, If Only Some Come Up!

Tools Arm The Man. One Can Well Say That Man Is Capable Of Bringing Forth A World; He Lacks Only The Necessary Apparatus, The Corresponding Armature Of His Sensory Tools. The Beginning Is There. Thus The Principle Of A Warship Lies In The Idea Of The Shipbuilder, Who Is Able To Incorporate This Thought By Making Himself Into A Gigantic Machine, As It Were, Through A Mass Of Men And Appropriate Tools And Materials. Thus The Idea Of A Moment Often Required Monstrous Organs, Monstrous Masses Of Materials, And Man Is Therefore A Potential, If Not An Actual Creator.