It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll; I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
How shall the soul of a man be larger than the life he has lived?
Shakespeare and Rembrandt have in common the faculty of quickening speculation and compelling the minds of men to combat and discussion.
This is the merit and distinction of art: to be more real than reality, to be not nature but nature’s essence.
In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud: Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beware of the man who rises to power from one suspender.
It is the artist’s function not to copy but to synthesise: to eliminate from that gross confusion of actuality which is his raw material whatever is accidental, idle, irrelevant, and select for perpetuation that only which is appropriate and immortal.
There are two men in Tolstoy. He is a mystic and he is also a realist. He is addicted to the practice of a pietism that for all its sincerity is nothing if not vague and sentimental; and he is the most acute and dispassionate of observers, the most profound and earnest student of character and emotion.
To be a good Briton, a man must trade profitably, marry respectably, live cleanly, avoid excess, revere the established order, and wear his heart in his breeches pocket or anywhere but on his sleeve.
Immortality is not a gift, Immortality is an achievement; And only those who strive mightily Shall possess it.