“The sublimity of wisdom is to do those things living, which are to be desired when dying.”
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There is in us a lyric germ or nucleus which deserves respect it bids a man to ponder or create and in this dim corner of himself he can take refuge and find consolations which the society of his fellow creatures does not provide.
The pine stays green in winter... wisdom in hardship.
A man can believe a considerable deal of rubbish, and yet go about his daily work in a rational and cheerful manner.
What is all wisdom save a collection of platitudes?
