You talk as if a god had made the Machine," cried the other. "I believe that you pray to it when you are unhappy. Men made it, do not forget that. Great men, but men. The Machine is much, but not everything.

God is not Love in the East. He is Power, although Mercy may temper it.

There is much good luck in the world, but it is luck. We are none of us safe. We are children, playing or quarrelling on the line.

The so called white races are really pinko-grey.

When love flies it is remembered not as love but as something else. Blessed are the uneducated, who forget it entirely, and are never conscious of folly or pruriency in the past, of long aimless conversations.

There is an aristocracy of the sensitive. They represent the true human tradition of permanent victory over cruelty and chaos.

Think before you speak is criticism's motto; speak before you think, creation's.