No such inspired creation is at unity with itself, any more than the clouds of heaven when the sun pierces through them.

Every shade of light and dark, of truth, and of fiction which is the veil of truth, is allowable in a work of philosophical imagination.

It is not all on the same plane; it easily passes from ideas to myths and fancies, from facts to figures of speech.
It is not prose but poetry, at least a great part of it, and ought not to be judged by the rules of logic or the probabilities of history.

The writer is not fashioning his ideas into an artistic whole; they take possession of him and are too much for him.

We have no need therefore to discuss whether a State such as Plato has conceived is practicable or not, or whether the outward form or the inward life came first into the mind of the writer.