I must plough my furrow alone.

How marvelous it all is! Built not by saints and angels, but the work of men's hands; cemented with men's honest blood and with a world of tears, welded by the best brains of centuries past; not without the taint and reproach incidental to all human work, but constructed on the whole with pure and splendid purpose. Human, and yet not wholly human -- for the most heedless and the most cynical must see the finger of the Divine.

Little, vicious minds abound with anger and revenge, and are incapable of feeling the pleasure of forgiving their enemies.

What you keep by you, you may change and mend but words, once spoken, can never be recalled.

Due attention to the inside of books, and due contempt for the outside, is the proper relation between a man of sense and his books.

Take the tone of the company you are in.