“Language is the most imperfect and expensive means yet discovered for communicating thought.”

The lunatic’s visions of horror are all drawn from the material of daily fact.

The most immutable barrier in nature is between one man’s thoughts and another’s.

A man with no philosophy in him is the most inauspicious and unprofitable of all possible social mates.

There is but one cause of human failure. And that is man’s lack of faith in his true Self.

Impulse without reason is enough, and reason without impulse is a poor makeshift.

When once a decision is reached and execution is the order of the day, dismiss absolutely all responsibility and care about the outcome.

To some of us the thought of God is like a sort of quiet music playing in the background of the mind.

Both thought and feeling are determinants of conduct, and the same conduct may be determined either by feeling or by thought.

Habit is a second nature, or rather, it is ‘ten times nature’.

Facts’ are the bounds of human knowledge, set for it, not by it.

We are thinking beings, and we cannot exclude the intellect from participating in any of our functions.

As long as there are postmen, life will have zest.

Where quality is the thing sought after, the thing of supreme quality is cheap, whatever the price one has to pay for it.

We with our lives are like islands in the sea, or like trees in the forest… But the trees also commingle their roots in the darkness underground.

If you give appreciation to people, you win their goodwill. But more important than that, practicing this philosophy has made a different person of me.

The ‘I think’ which Kant said must be able to accompany all my objects, is the ‘I breathe’ which actually does accompany them.

The more mysterious, the more imperfect: that which is mystically spoken is but half spoken.

The first draft of a book is the most uncertain-where you need guts, the ability to accept the imperfect until it is better.

If God had not made Sherry, how imperfect his work would have been.

Opinion is a light, vain, crude, and imperfect thing.

It is only imperfection that complains of what is imperfect. The more perfect we are the more gentle and quiet we become towards the defects of others.

I considered her my ally, because, like me, she was imperfect.

No story is a straight line. The geometry of a human life is too imperfect and complex, too distorted by the laughter of time and the bewildering intricacies of fate to admit the straight line into its system of laws.

I am fallen, flawed and imperfect.