The world is a play that would not be worth seeing if we knew the plot.

Distaste sounds more emphatic when expressed as moral disapproval. With most of us the moral counterblast is nothing more than the angry rendering of a yawn.

There ought to be some sign in a book about man, that the writer knows thoroughly one man at least.

We always carry out by committee anything in which any one of us alone would be too reasonable to persist.

We do not mind our not arriving anywhere nearly so much as our not having any company on the way.

The New York playgoer is a child of nature, and he has an honest and wholesome regard of whatever is atrocious in art.

As wounded men may limp through life, so our war minds may not regain the balance of their thoughts for decades.