We have learned the answers, all the answers: it is the question that we do not know.

The infantile cowardice of our time which demands an external pattern, a nonhuman authority.

Piety's hard enough to take among the poor who have to practice it. A rich man's piety stinks. It's insufferable.

The American mood, perhaps even the American character, has changed. There are few manifestations any longer of the old American self-assurance which so irritated Dickens. Instead, there is a sense of frustration so perceptible that even our politicians have attempted to exploit it.

There is no dusk to be, There is no dawn that was, Only there's now, and now, And the wind in the grass.

Once you permit those who are convinced of their own superior rightness to censor and silence and suppress those who hold contrary opinions, just at that moment the citadel has been surrendered.

A world ends when its metaphor has died.