
A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte
Seurat spent two years building this riverbank out of tiny dots of unmixed color, applying optical theory to a crowd standing oddly still.

Seurat spent two years building this riverbank out of tiny dots of unmixed color, applying optical theory to a crowd standing oddly still.

Dickinson wrote nearly eighteen hundred poems in a Massachusetts bedroom, on death, God, and her own mind, and remade the English lyric. Begin with "Because I could not stop for Death."

Philosophers smuggle their own prejudices in as truth, Nietzsche says, and the morality they defend was invented by the weak. He writes in short bursts aimed straight at the reader.

Nothing in fiction gets nearer to dying. Ivan Ilyich knocks his side hanging a curtain, and his family and his doctors keep up the pretense while a peasant servant tells the truth.

Drunk at a country fair, a farm laborer sells his wife and baby to a sailor for five guineas. Years later he is mayor of Casterbridge, and Hardy lets the past collect.

Stevenson handed psychology its permanent image of the divided self. A respectable London doctor admits a brutal little stranger to his house, and the lawyer who investigates finds the truth worse than blackmail.
Blessed are the forgetful: for they get the better even of their blunders.

Bodhidharma meditates before a broken lattice with the moon behind it. Yoshitoshi is reckoned the last great master of the woodblock print.
It is not the strength but the duration of great sentiments that makes great men.
All human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil.