The wit knows that his place is at the tail of a procession.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
Wit is the appearance, the external flash of imagination. Thus its divinity, and the witty character of mysticism.
In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers.
Wit is a dangerous weapon, even to the possessor, if he knows not how to use it discreetly.
Life is a pilgrimage. The wise man does not rest by the roadside inns. He marches direct to the illimitable domain of eternal bliss, his ultimate destination.
Wit is so shining a quality that everybody admires it; most people aim at it, all people fear it, and few love it unless in themselves. A man must have a good share of wit himself to endure a great share of it in another.
You walk through a series of arches, so to speak, and then, presently, at the end of a corridor, a door opens and you see backward through time, and you feel the flow of time, and realize you are only part of a great nameless procession.
The rush of a herd of bellowing yaks at a wild gallop, waving their huge tails, is a grand sight.
The prophet and the martyr do not see the hooting throng. Their eyes are fixed on the eternities.
Wit is an explosion of the compound spirit.
He is winding the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.