If we will not be mar-plots with our miserable interferences, the work, the society, letters, arts, science, religion of men would go on far better than now, and the heaven predicted from the beginning of the world, and still predicted from the bottom of the heart, would organize itself, as do now the rose, and the air, and the sun.
In a spirit of compassion for all, this manifesto proclaims that every competent adult has the incontestable right to humankinds ultimate civil and personal liberty -- the right to die in a manner and at a time of their own choosing. Whereas modern medicine has brought great benefits to humanity, it cannot entirely solve the pain and distress of the dying process.
The soul will not know either deformity or pain.
All our manual labor and works of strength, as prying, splitting, digging, rowing, and so forth, are done by dint of continual falling, and the globe, earth, moon, comet, sun, star, fall for ever and ever.
Could Shakspeare give a theory of Shakspeare?
What we call obscure condition or vulgar society is that condition and society whose poetry is not yet written, but which you shall presently make as enviable and renowned as any.
The face of external nature teaches the same lesson.
The parts of hospitality, the connection of families, the impressiveness of death, and a thousand other things, royalty makes its own estimate of, and a royal mind will.
Nature will not have us fret and fume.
A man's genius, the quality that differences him from every other, the susceptibility to one class of influences, the selection of what is fit for him, the rejection of what is unfit, determines for him the character of the universe.
my little Sir.' We are full of mechanical actions.
We think greatness entailed or organized in some places or duties, in certain offices or occasions, and do not see that can extract rapture from a catgut, and and a nimble-fingered lad out of shreds of paper with his scissors, and out of swine, and the hero out of the pitiful habitation and company in which he was hidden.
Love should make joy; but our benevolence is unhappy.
Those facts, words, persons, which dwell in his memory without his being able to say why, remain, because they have a relation to him not less real for being as yet unapprehended.
We pain ourselves to please nobody.
Foolish, whenever you take the meanness and formality of that thing you do, instead of converting it into the obedient spiracle of your character and aims.