Oh, the moon is fair tonight along the Wabash,
From the fields there comes the breath of new-mown hay;
Through the sycamores the candle lights are gleaming
On the banks of the Wabash, far away.
Our civilization is still in a middle stage — scarcely beast in that it is no longer wholly guided by instinct; scarcely human, in that it is not yet wholly guided by reason.
The most futile thing in this world is to attempt exact definitions of character. All individuals are a bundle of contrarieties—none more so than the most capable.
A man, a real man, must never be an agent, a tool, or a gambler—acting for himself or for others—he must employ such. A real man—a financier—is never a tool. He used tools. He created. He led
I acknowledge the Furies. I believe in them. I have heard the disastrous beating of their wings.
Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on wings of misery and travail.
Shakespeare, I come! (Last Words)