Both of us victims of the same twentieth-century plague. Not the Black Death, this time; the Gray Life.

Reality cannot be ignored except at a price; and the longer the ignorance is persisted in, the higher and more terrible becomes the price that must be paid.

Abused as we abuse it at present, dramatic art is in no sense cathartic; it is merely a form of emotional masturbation.

There was a thing called Heaven; but all the same they used to drink enormous quantities of alcohol.

Unless we choose to decentralize and to use applied science, not as the end to which human beings are to be made the means, but as the means to producing a race of free individuals, we have only two alternatives to choose from: either a number of national

Speed, it seems to me, provides the one genuinely modern pleasure.

In the world of ideas everything was clear; in life all was obscure, embroiled.