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.

The mind has its own logic but does not often let others in on it.

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 Reason is that it becomes meaningless at the exact point where it refuses to act.

You can no more keep a Martini in the refrigerator than you can keep a kiss there.

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