Blessed is the satirist; and blessed the ironist; blessed the witty scoffer, and blessed the sentimentalist; for each, having seen one spoke of the wheel, thinks to have seen all, and is content.

A mind too proud to unbend over the small ridiculosa of life is as painful as a library with no trash in it.

Religion is an attempt, a noble attempt, to suggest in human terms more-than-human realities.

The human mind appears suddenly and inexplicably out of some unknown and unimaginable void. It passes half its known life in the mental chaos of sleep. Even when awake it is a victim of its own ill-adjustment, of disease, of age, of external suggestion, of nature's compulsions; it doubts its own sensations and trusts only in instruments and averages.

Perhaps this is an age when men think bravely of the human spirit; for surely they have a strange lust to lay it bare.

God made man merely to hear some praise of what he'd done on those Five Days.

Everybody thinks of others as being excessively human, with all the frailties and crotchets appertaining to that curious condition. But each of us also seems to regard himself as existing on a detached plane of observation, exempt (save in moments of avid crisis) from the strange whims of humanity en masse.