What his imagination is to the poet, facts are to the historian. His exercise of judgment comes in their selection, his art in their arrangement.

bureaucracy, safely repeating today what it did yesterday, rolls on as ineluctably as some vast computer, which, once penetrated by error, duplicates it forever.

The Germans could not get over the perfidy of it. It was unbelievable that the English, having degenerated to the stage where suffragettes heckled the Prime Minister and defied the police, were going to fight.

Theology being the work of males, original sin was traced to the female.

Without books, history is silent, literature dumb, science crippled.

When the gap between ideal and real becomes too wide, the system breaks down.

The story and study of the past, both recent and distant, will not reveal the future, but it flashes beacon lights along the way and it is a useful nostrum against despair.