The End Of Writing Is To Instruct;

To Live Without Feeling Or Exciting Sympathy, To Be Fortunate Without Adding To The Felicity Of Others, Or Afflicted Without Tasting The Balm Of Pity, Is A State More Gloomy Than Solitude; It Is Not Retreat, But Exclusion From Mankind. Marriage Has Many Pains, But Celibacy Has No Pleasures.

Don't Think Of Retiring From The World Until The World Will Be Sorry That You Retire. I Hate A Fellow Whom Pride Or Cowardice Or Laziness Drive Into A Corner, And Who Does Nothing When He Is There But Sit And Growl. Let Him Come Out As I Do, And Bark.

There Is ... Scarcely Any Species Of Writing Of Which We Can Tell What Is Its Essence, And What Are Its Constituents; Every New Genius Produces Some Innovation, Which, When Invented And Approved, Subverts The Rules Which The Practice Of Foregoing Authors Had Established.

Cowardice Encroaches Fast Upon Such As Spend Their Lives In Company Of Persons Higher Than Themselves.

It May Be No Less Dangerous To Claim, On Certain Occasions, Too Little Than Too Much. There Is Something Captivating In Spirit And Intrepidity, To Which We Often Yield As To A Resistless Power; Nor Can We Often Yield As To A Resistless Power; Nor Can He Reasonably Expect The Confidence Of Others Who Too Apparently Distrusts Himself.