We are willing enough to praise freedom when she is safely tucked away in the past and cannot be a nuisance. In the present, amidst dangers whose outcome we cannot foresee, we get nervous about her, and admit censorship.

It comes to this then: there always have been people like me and always will be, and generally they have been persecuted.

We are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable, and only to be approached by the statistician or the poet.

The more highly public life is organized the lower does its morality sink.

Surely the only sound foundation for a civilization is a sound state of mind.

English literature is a flying fish.

Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there?