Thomas Carlyle

All destruction, by violent revolution or however it be, is but new creation on a wider scale.

Armed Soldier, terrible as Death, relentless as Doom; doing God's judgement on the Enemies of God. It is a phenomenon not of joyful nature; no, but of awful, to be looked at with pious terror and awe.

Of all the paths a man could strike into, there is, at any given moment, a best path .. A thing which, here and now, it were of all things wisest for him to do .. To find this path, and walk in it, is the one thing needful for him.

The condition of the most passionate enthusiast is to be preferred over the individual who, because of the fear of making a mistake, won't in the end affirm or deny anything

Music is well said to be the speech of angels.

The Bible is the truest utterance that ever came by alphabetic letters from the soul of man, through which, as through a window divinely opened, all men can look into the stillness of eternity, and discern in glimpses their far-distant, long-forgotten home.

Love is not altogether a delirium, yet it has many points in common therewith.

The greatest of faults, I should say, is to be conscious of none.

The end of man is action, and not thought, though it be of the noblest.

The best effect of any book is that it excites the reader to self activity.

The steam-engine I call fire-demon and great; but it is nothing to the invention of fire.

The greatest fault is to be conscious of none.

Out of the lowest depths there is a path to the loftiest heights.

Properly speaking, all true work is religion.

He who has no vision of eternity has no hold on time.

The man who cannot wonder, who does not habitually wonder (and worship), were he President of innumerable Royal Societies, and carried the whole Mecanique Celeste and Hegel's Philosophy, and the epitome of all Laboratories and Observatories with their results, in his single head, is but a Pair of Spectacles behind which there is no Eye. Let those who have Eyes look through him, then he may be useful.

A vein of poetry exists in the hearts of all men.

Why did not somebody teach me the constellations, and make me at home in the starry heavens, which are always overhead, and which I don't half know to this day?

We call that fire of the black thunder-cloud "electricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out of glass and silk: but what is it? What made it? Whence comes it? Whither goes it?

Nature alone is antique, and the oldest art a mushroom.

A force as of madness in the hands of reason has done all that was ever done in the world.