We are ashamed to seem evasive in the presence of a straightforward man, cowardly in the presence of a brave one, gross in the eyes of a refined one, and so on. We always imagine, and in imagining share, the judgments of the other mind.
As social beings we live with our eyes upon our reflection, but have no assurance of the tranquillity of the waters in which we see it.
The need to exert power, when thwarted in the open fields of life, is the more likely to assert itself in trifles.
A talent somewhat above mediocrity, shrewd and not too sensitive, is more likely to rise in the world than genius.
To have no heroes is to have no aspiration, to live on the momentum of the past, to be thrown back upon routine, sensuality, and the narrow self.
The literature of the inner life is very largely a record of struggle with the inordinate passions of the social self.
