Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark. She carries its destiny in the folds of her mantle.
Great men are true men, the men in whom nature has succeeded.
They are not extraordinary - they are in the true order. It is the other species of men who are not what they ought to be. To live we must conquer incessantly, we must have the courage to be happy. Analysis kills spontaneity. Without passion man is a mere latent force, and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark.