Whenever an obviously well founded statement is made in England by a person specially well acquainted with the facts, that unlucky person is instantly and frantically contradicted by all the people who obviously know nothing about it.

Reminiscences make one feel so deliciously aged and sad.

The buried truth germinates and breaks through to the light.

Oh, well, if you want original conversations, you'd better go and talk to yourself.

I never expect a soldier to think.

Only in books has mankind known perfect truth, love and beauty.

The medieval doctors of divinity who did not pretend to settle how many angels could dance on the point of a needle cut a very poor figure as far as romantic credulity is concerned beside the modern physicists who have settled to the billionth of a millimetre every movement and position in the dance of the electrons. Not for worlds would I question the precise accuracy of these calculations or the existence of electrons (whatever they may be). The fate of Joan is a warning to me against such heresy.