My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery – always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What’s this passion for?
Passion is the mob of the man, that commits a riot upon his reason.
It is foolish to pretend that one is fully recovered from a disappointed passion. Such wounds always leave a scar.
Liberty is a great celestial Goddess, strong, beneficent, and austere, and she can never descend upon a nation by the shouting of crowds, nor by arguments of unbridled passion, nor by the hatred of class against class.