I was at home then in the world of figures, but not in that of values.

Among the delights of Summer were picnics to the woods.

That a literature in our time is living is shown in that way that it debates problems.

The appalling thing about war is that it kills all love of truth.

The stream of time sweeps away errors, and leaves the truth for the inheritance of humanity.

I did not know what it was to be happy for a whole day at a time, scarcely for an hour.

Poor is the power of the lead that becomes bullets compared to the power of the hot metal that becomes types.