Robert IngersollThinkers

Hope is the only bee that makes honey without flowers.

Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voiceless lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of death hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.

Mental slavery is mental death, and every man who has given up his intellectual freedom is the living coffin of his dead soul.