If a man, sitting all alone, cannot dream strange things, and make them look like truth, he need never try to write romances.
What would a man do, if he were compelled to live always in the sultry heat of society, and could never bathe himself in cool solitude?
It contributes greatly towards a man's moral and intellectual health, to be brought into habits of companionship with individuals unlike himself, who care little for his pursuits, and whose sphere and abilities he must go out of himself to appreciate.
The world owes all its onward impulses to men ill at ease. The happy man inevitably confines himself within ancient limits.
Amid the seeming confusion of our mysterious world, individuals are so nicely adjusted to a system, and systems to one another and to a whole, that, by stepping aside for a moment, a man exposes himself to a fearful risk of losing his place forever.
Trusting no man as his friend, he could not recognize his enemy when the latter actually appeared.