His melodious stanza, which he cannot bear to see halt in any syllable, is a rough fact reduced to order; fact made to stand firm on its feet, with the world-rocks under it, and looking free towards all the winds and all the stars.

He goes about suppressing platitudes, ripping off futilities, turning deceptions inside out.

The realm of Disorder, which is Unveracity, Unreality, what we call Chaos, has no fiercer enemy.

Honest soul, and he seemed to himself such a stupid fellow often; no tongue-learning at all; little capable to give a reason for the faith that was in him.

He cannot argue in articulate logic, only in inarticulate bellowings, or worse.