I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born. The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things.
I have always been regretting that I was not as wise as the day I was born. The intellect is a cleaver; it discerns and rifts its way into the secret of things.
— Henry David Thoreau, Walden (1854), Chapter 2 : Where I Lived, and What I Lived For
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