My theology, briefly, is that the universe was dictated but not signed.

The censure of a dog is something no man can stand.

I had a million questions to ask God: but when I met Him, they all fled my mind; and it didn't seem to matter.

There is no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love, and like that colossal adventure it is an experience of great social import. Even as the tranced swain, the booklover yearns to tell others of his bliss. He writes letters about it, adds it to the postscript of all manner of communications, intrudes it into telephone messages, and insists on his friends writing down the title of the find. Like the simple-hearted betrothed, once certain of his conquest

Happiness is surely the best teacher of good manners: only the unhappy are churlish in deportment.

If you have to keep reminding yourself of a thing, perhaps it isn't so.

Standing by the crib of one's own baby, with that world - old pang of compassion and protectiveness toward this so little creature that has all its course to run, the heart flies back in yearning and gratitude to those who felt just so toward one's self. Then for the first time one understands the homely succession of sacrifices and pains by which life is transmitted and fostered down the stumbling generations of men.