When temptations march monotonously in regiments, one waits for to pass.

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

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

One learns little more about a man from the feats of his literary memory than from the feats of his alimentary canal.

Men will confess to treason, murder, arson, false teeth, or a wig. How many of them will own up to a lack of humor?

As crowds increase we build our forts of inattention, and the more we talk the easier it is to mean little and listen not at all.

Persecution was at least a sign of personal interest.