Perhaps Man Is The Only Being That

Sorrow Is A Kind Of Rust Of The Soul, Which Every New Idea Contributes In Its Passage To Scour Away. It Is The Putrefaction Of Stagnant Life, And Is Remedied By Exercise And Motion.

The Business Of The Biographer Is Often To Pass Slightly Over Those Performances And Incidents Which Produce Vulgar Greatness, To Lead The Thoughts Into Domestic Privacies, And Display The Minute Details Of Daily Life, Were Exterior Appendages Are Cast Aside, And Men Excel Each Other Only By Prudence And Virtue.

There Prevails Among Men Of Letters, An Opinion, That All Appearance Of Science Is Particularly Hateful To Women; And That Therefore Whoever Desires To Be Well Received In Female Assemblies, Must Qualify Himself By A Total Rejection Of All That Is Serious, Rational, Or Important; Must Consider Argument Or Criticism As Perpetually Interdicted; And Devote All His Attention To Trifles, And All His Eloquence To Compliment.

A Man May Be So Much Of Everything That He Is Nothing Of Anything.

Language Is Only The Instrument Of Science, And Words Are But The Signs Of Ideas.