the same way be made to compensate for lack of genius.
Could people but see the notebooks and memoranda from which immortal works have often arisen (and here I enjoy the confidence of certain authors who have made no little stir), it would certainly afford thousands the greatest consolation. As this, however, cannot well be managed, we must learn to judge of others by ourselves. A man should deem no one over-great, but firmly believe all imperishable works to have been the fruit of industry and strenuous attention.
Of books known to everybody we should read only the very best, and afterwards only those which hardly anyone knows, but whose authors were men of genius.
To make the best of any given moment of life, favourable and unfavourable alike; to improve that moment, whether it be dealt us from Fortune’s right hand or her left—this is the art of life and the true prerogative of a rational being.
For quickening the philosophy that lies dormant in all of us writing is excellent. Anyone who has ever done any writing will have found that it invariably brings something to light of which, though latent in him, he was not clearly conscious before.
To know how to turn unexpected events in life to
