The life of truth is cold.

The finest and noblest ground on which people can live is truth; the real with the real; a ground on which nothing is assumed.

God offers to every mind its choice between truth and repose. Take which you please; you can never have both.

When we are young, we spend much time and pains in filling our note-books with all definitions of Religion, Love, Poetry, Politics, Art, in the hope that, in the course of a few years, we shall have condensed into our encyclopaedia the net value of all the theories at which the world has yet arrived. But year after year our tables get no completeness, and at last we discover that our curve is a parabola, whose arcs will never meet.

Truth is our element.

It came into him life, it went out from him truth. It came to him short-lived actions; it went from him poetry. It was a dead fact; now, it is quick thought. It can stand, and it can go. It now endures, it now flies, it now inspires. Precisely in porportion to the depth of mind from which it issued, so high does it soar, so long does it live.