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.

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

Sure the people are stupid: the human race is stupid. Sure Congress is an inefficient instrument of government. But the people are not stupid enough to abandon representative government for any other kind, including government by the guy who knows.

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

Art is man determined to die sane.

The rat stops gnawing in the wood, the dungeon walls withdraw, the weight is lifted your pulse steadies and the sun has found your heart, the day was not bad, the season has not been bad, there is sense and even promise in going on.