It Is Surely A Matter Of Common

If Love Closes, The Self Contracts And Hardens: The Mind Having Nothing Else To Occupy Its Attention And Give It That Change And Renewal It Requires, Busies Itself More And More With Self-feeling, Which Takes On Narrow And Disgusting Forms, Like Avarice, Arrogance And Fatuity.

One Should Never Criticize His Own Work Except In A Fresh And Hopeful Mood. The Self-criticism Of A Tired Mind Is Suicide.

It Is Surely A Matter Of Common Observation That A Man Who Knows No One Thing Intimately Has No Views Worth Hearing On Things In General. The Farmer Philosophizes In Terms Of Crops, Soils, Markets, And Implements, The Mechanic Generalizes His Experiences Of Wood And Iron, The Seaman Reaches Similar Conclusions By His Own Special Road; And If The Scholar Keeps Pace With These It Must Be By An Equally Virile Productivity.

The Mind Is Not A Hermit's Cell, But A Place Of Hospitality And Intercourse.

There Is Perhaps No Sort Of Self More Subject To Dangerous Egotism Than That Which Deludes Itself With The Notion That It Is Not A Self At All, But Something Else. It Is Well To Beware Of Persons Who Believe That The Cause, The Mission, The Philanthropy, The Hero, Or Whatever It May Be That They Strive For, Is Outside Of Themselves, So That They Feel A Certain Irresponsibility, And Are Likely To Do Things Which They Would Recognize As Wrong If Done In Behalf Of An Acknowledged Self.