"No writer, no matter how gifted, immortalizes himself unless he has crystallized into expressive and..." — Alfred de Vigny

One might almost reckon mathematically that, having undergone the double composition of public opinion and of the author, their history reaches us at third hand and is thus separated by two stages from the original fact.

Just as we descend into our consciences to judge of actions which our minds can not weigh, can we not also search in ourselves for the feeling which gives birth to forms of thought, always vague and cloudy?

The human mind, I believe, cares for the True only in the general character of an epoch.

What is the use of theorizing as to wherein lies the charm that moves us?