The cost of a thing is the amount of what I will call life which is required to be exchanged for it, immediately or in the long run.
(Also known as: The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it.)
The animal merely makes a bed, which he warms with his body in a sheltered place; but man, having discovered fire, boxes up some air in a spacious apartment, and warms that, instead of robbing himself, makes that his bed, in which he can move about divested of more cumbrous clothing, maintain a kind of summer in the midst of winter, and by means of windows even admit the light and with a lamp lengthen out the day.
The amount of it is, the imagination, give it the least license, dives deeper and soars higher than Nature goes.
Solitude is not measured by the miles of space that intervene between a man and his fellows. The really diligent student in one of the crowded hives of Cambridge College is as solitary as a dervisdh in the desert.
Our life is frittered away by detail. An honest man has hardly need to count more than his ten fingers, or in extreme cases he may add his ten toes, and lump the rest. Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity!
(Also known as: Our life is frittered away by detail… simplify, simplify.)
Our houses are such unwieldy property that we are often imprisoned rather than housed in them; and the bad neighborhood to be avoided is our own scurvy selves.
Nature puts no question and answers none which we mortals ask. She has long ago taken her resolution.
Nature and human life are as various as our several constitutions. Who shall say what prospect life offers to another?