To romanticize the world is to make us aware of the magic, mystery and wonder of the world; it is to educate the senses to see the ordinary as extraordinary, the familiar as strange, the mundane as sacred, the finite as infinite.
Where are we really going? Always home.
The mysterious path goes inward. It is in us, and not anywhere else, where the eternity of the worlds, the past and the future are found.
In a work of art, chaos must shimmer through the veil of order.
A hero is one who knows how to hang on one minute longer.
Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason.
We are more closely connected to the invisible than to the visible.
Love is the final end of the world's history, the Amen of the universe.
Friendship, love, and piety ought to be handled with a sort of mysterious secrecy; they ought to be spoken of only in the rare moments of perfect confidence, to be mutually understood in silence. Many things are too delicate to be thought; many more, to be spoken.
Life must not be a novel that is given to us, but one that is made by us.
There is but one temple in the universe, and that is the body of man.
When you understand how to love one thing, then you also understand how to love everything.
Accident is simply unforeseen order.
You are alone with everything you love.
Everything at a distance turns into poetry; distant mountains, distant people, distant events; all become Romantic.
Nature is an aeolian harp, a musical instrument whose tones are the re-echo of higher strings within us.
Imagination places the future world for us either above or below or in reincarnation. We dream of travels throughout the universe: is not the universe within us? We do not know the depths of our spirit. The mysterious path leads within. In us, or nowhere, lies eternity with its worlds, the past and the future.
Learning is pleasurable but doing is the height of enjoyment.
All the events of our life are materials of which we can make what we will.
There is but one temple in the world, and that is the body of man. Nothing is holier than this high form. Bending before men is a reverence done to this revelation in the flesh. We touch heaven when we lay our hand on a human body.
In cheerful souls there is no wit. Wit shows a disturbance of the equipoise.
Man is lyrical, woman epic, marriage dramatic.
Philosophy can bake no bread; but she can procure for us God, Freedom, Immortality. Which, then, is more practical, Philosophy or Economy?
Philosophy is properly home-sickness; the wish to be everywhere at home.
I often feel, and ever more deeply I realize, that fate and character are the same conception.
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