All Life Is An Experiment.

Physical Force Has No Value, Where There Is Nothing Else. Snow In Snow-banks, Fire In Volcanoes And Solfataras Is Cheap. The Luxury Of Ice Is In Tropical Countries, And Midsummer Days. The Luxury Of Fire Is, To Have A Little On Our Hearth; And Of Electricity, Not The Volleys Of The Charged Cloud, But The Manageable Stream On The Battery-wires. So Of Spirit, Or Energy; The Rests Or Remains Of It In The Civil And Moral Man, Are Worth All The Cannibals In The Pacific.

O Day Of Days When We Can Read! The Reader And The Book, Either Without The Other Is Naught.

Life Itself Is ... A Sleep Within A Sleep.

Every Body We Know Surrounds Himself With A Fine House, Fine Books, Conservatory, Gardens, Equipage, And All Manner Of Toys, As Screens To Interpose Between Himself And His Guest. Does It Not Seem As If Man Was Of A Very Sly, Elusive Nature, And Dreaded Nothing So Much As A Full Rencontre Front To Front With His Fellow?

In Excited Conversation We Have Glimpses Of The Universe, Hints Of Power Native To The Soul, Far-darting Lights And Shadows Of An Andes Landscape, Such As We Can Hardly Attain In Lone Meditation. Here Are Oracles Sometimes Profusely Given, To Which The Memory Goes Back In Barren Hours.