All I have seen teaches me to trust the creator for all I have not seen.
The years teach much which the days never know.
All life is an experiment.
To finish the moment, to find the journey's end in every step of the road, to live the greatest number of good hours, is wisdom.
We learn geology the morning after the earthquake.
There are moods in which we court suffering, in the hope that here, at least, we shall find reality, sharp peaks and edges of truth. But it turns out to be scene-painting and counterfeit. The only thing grief has taught me is to know how shallow it is.
The mark of a man of the world is absence of pretension.
All persons are puzzles until at last we find in some word or act the key to the man, to the woman; straightway all their past words and actions lie in light before us.
Experience is the only teacher, and we get his lesson indifferently in any school.
The finished man of the world must eat of every apple once.
The experience of each new age requires a new confession, and the world seems always waiting for its poet
I learn immediately from any speaker how much he has already lived, through the poverty or the splendor of his speech. Life lies behind us as the quarry from whence we get tiles and copestones for the masonry of today. This is the way to learn grammar. Colleges and books only copy the language which the field and the work-yard made.
Condense some daily experience into a glowing symbol and an audience is electrified.
The results of life are uncalculated and uncalculable. The years teach much which the days never know. The persons who compose our company, converse, and come and go, and design and execute many things, and somewhat comes of it all, but an unlooked for result. The individual is always mistaken. He designed many things, and drew in other persons as coadjutors, quarrelled with some or all, blundered much, and something is done; all are a little advanced, but the individual is always mistaken. It turns out somewhat new, and very unlike what he promised himself.
No man ever came to an experience which was satiating, but his good is tidings of a better. Onward and onward!
I wish the days to be as centuries, loaded, fragrant. Now we reckon them as bank-days, by some debt which is to be paid us, or which we are to pay, or some pleasure we are to taste.
What opium is instilled into all disaster? It shows formidable as we approach it, but there is at last no rough rasping friction,but the most slippery sliding surfaces. We fall soft on a thought.
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