Politics is a place of humble hopes and strangely modest requirements, where all are good who are not criminal and all are wise who are not ridiculously otherwise.

Sin in this country has been always said to be rather calculating than impulsive.

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

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.

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

Averageness is a quality we must put up with. Men march toward civilization in column formation, and by the time the van has learned to admire the masters the rear is drawing reluctantly away from the totem pole.

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