Quotes
Quotes - Emerson
The value of a principle is the number of things it will explain; and there is no good theory of disease which does not at once suggest a cure.
Men wish to be saved from the mischiefs of their vices, but not from their vices.
Every vice is only an exaggeration of a necessary and virtuous function.
Act, if you like, but you do it at your peril. Men's actions are too strong for them. Show me a man who has acted and who has not been the victim and slave of his action.
Men talk as if victory were something fortunate. Work is victory.
The god of victory is said to be one-handed, but peace gives victory on both sides.
All violence, all that is dreary and repels, is not power, but the absence of power.
The virtue in most request is conformity.
The virtues of society are vices of the saint. The terror of reform is the discovery that we must cast away our virtues, or what we have always esteemed such, into the same pit that has consumed our grosser vices.
The only reward of virtue is virtue.
Where there is no vision a people perish.
Each man has his own vocation; his talent is his call. There is one direction in which all space is open to him.
A man's style is his mind's voice. Wooden minds, wooden voices.
It is one of the most beautiful compensations of life, that no man can sincerely try to help another without helping himself.
How much of human life is lost in waiting.
Want is a growing giant whom the coat of Have was never large enough to cover.
Our strength grows out of our weakness.
Give no bounties: make equal laws: secure life and prosperity and you need not give alms.
Want is a growing giant whom the coat of Have was never large enough to cover.
Wealth is in applications of mind to nature; and the art of getting rich consists not in industry, much less in saving, but in a better order, in timeliness, in being at the right spot.
Without a rich heart wealth is an ugly beggar.
Let us be silent that we may hear the whispers of the gods.
The education of the will is the object of our existence.
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew In the belly of the grape, Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through Under the Andes to the Cape, Suffered no savor of the earth to escape.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
