The author of the Iliad is either Homer or, if not Homer, somebody else of the same name.

You all remember, I suppose, that beautiful and inspired saying of Our Ford's: History is bunk.

Man is an intelligence in servitude to his organs.

Ultimate Reality is not clearly and immediately apprehended except by those who have made themselves loving, pure in heart and poor in spirit.

Every ceiling reached becomes a floor.

Along this particular stretch of line no express had ever passed. All the trains--the few that there were--stopped at all the stations. Denis knew the names of those stations by heart. Bole, Tritton, Spavin Delawarr, Knipswich for Timpany, West Bowlby, and, finally, Camlet-on-the-Water.

Real progress is progress in charity, all other advances being secondary thereto.