I dote on myself. There is a lot of me and all so luscious.
So here I sit in the early candle-light of old age-I and my book-casting backward glances over out travel’d road.
O the joy of my spirit – it is uncaged – it darts like lightning!
The past, the future, majesty, love – if they are vacant of you, you are vacant of them.
Now understand me well. It is provided in the essence of things that from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something to make a greater struggle necessary.
All the past we leave behind; We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world, Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march, Pioneers! O Pioneers!
Liberty is to be subserved, whatever occurs.
But the people are ungrammatical, untidy, and their sins gaunt and ill-bred.
Books are to be called for and supplied on the assumption that the process of reading is not a half-sleep, but in the highest sense an exercise, a gymnastic struggle; that the reader is to do something for himself.
Everybody is writing, writing, writing – worst of all, writing poetry. It’d be better if the whole tribe of the scribblers – every damned one of us – were sent off somewhere with tool chests to do some honest work.
O amazement of things-even the least particle!
A man is a great thing upon the earth and through eternity; but every jot of the greatness of man is unfolded out of woman.
O lands! O all so dear to me – what you are, I become part of that, whatever it is.
Many a good man I have seen go under.
I have no mockings or arguments; I witness and wait.
I loafe and invite my soul.
I say the whole earth and all the stars in the sky are for religion’s sake.
I swear I think there is nothing but immortality!
Whoever you are, motion and reflection are especially for you, The divine ship sails the divine sea for you.
I am the man, I suffered, I was there.