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?

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

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

When evening quickens in the street, comes a pause in the day's occupation that is known as the cocktail hour. It marks the lifeward turn. The heart wakens from coma and its dyspnea ends. Its strengthening pulse is to cross over into campground, to believe that the world has not been altogether lost or, if lost, then not altogether in vain.

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.

Art is the terms of an armistice signed with fate.

The only places where American medicine can fully live up to its possibilities are the teaching hospitals.