History abhors determinism but cannot tolerate chance.

A novelist has mad a fictional representation of life. I doing so, he has revealed to us more significance, it may be, than he could find in life itself.

The trouble with the sacred Individual is that he has no significance, except as he can acquire it from others, from the social whole.

Let us candidly admit that there are shameful blemishes on the American past, of which the worst by far is rum. Nevertheless, we have improved man's lot and enriched his civilization with rye, bourbon and the Martini cocktail. In all history has any other nation done so much?

Something can be done with people who put pickled onions in: strangulation seems best.

The achieved West had given the United States something that no people had ever had before, an internal, domestic empire.

This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affectations glow and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn.