Love is unlike the bow of Ulysses, in that it can be drawn to its full capacity of magnificence or destruction not only by the greatest.
I know a man who looks like Boccaccio, and does not appreciate it.
Genius, like the lowly insect having prophetic stirrings of the beauty it is to evolve, needs solitude, and must build it unaided for itself. If it come forth in due time winged and lovely to the sun, or if it die in the dark, unsuspected of its aim, either end will be found best relatively to the life it affects.
There is no participator who serves so well in any conversation as an adept in commonplaces and "words, words, words."