Men believe death's elections to be a thing inscrutable yet every act invites the act which follows and to the extent that men put one foot before the other they are accomplices in their own deaths as in all such facts of destiny.

The way of the world is to bloom and to flower and die but in the affairs of men there is no waning and the noon of his expression signals the onset of night. His spirit is exhausted at the peak of its achievement. His meridian is at once his darkening and the evening of his day.

Finally he said that among men there was no such communion as among horses and the notion that men can be understood at all was probably an illusion.

The cooler days have brought a wistful mood upon him. The smell of coalsmoke in the air at night. Old times, dead years. For him such memories are bitter ones.

What joins men together ... is not the sharing of bread but the sharing of enemies.

The martyr who longs for the flames can be no right candidate for them.

Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland.