Great literature is simply language charged with meaning to the utmost possible degree.

Adolf Hitler was a Jeanne d'Arc, a saint. He was a martyr. Like many martyrs, he held extreme views.

A man's hope measures his civilization. The attainability of the hope measures, or may measure, the civilization of his nation and time.

There is natural ignorance and there is artificial ignorance. I should say at the present moment the artificial ignorance is about eighty-five per cent.

Utter originality is, of course, out of the question.

The rustling of the silk is discontinued, Dust drifts over the courtyard, There is not sound of footfall, and the leaves Scurry into heaps and lie still, And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them: A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.

I guess the definition of a lunatic is a man surrounded by them.