Man makes a great fuss about this planet which is only a ballbearing in the hub of the universe.

There is indeed a heaven on this earth, a heaven which we inhabit when we read a good book.

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.

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.

Read, every day, something no one else is reading. Think, every day, something no one else is thinking.

The plural of spouse is spice.

Truth is the ricochet of a prejudice bouncing off a fact.