The poverty of our imagination is no measure of say the world's resources. Our posterity will no doubt get fuel in ways that we are unable to devise for them.

Family likeness has often a deep sadness in it.

Subtle impressions for which words are quite too coarse a medium.

When a homemaking aunt scolds a niece for following her evangelistic passion instead of domestic pursuits, her reply is interesting. First, she clarifies that God's individual call on her doesn't condemn those in more conventional roles. Then, she says she can no more ignore the cry of the lost than her aunt can the cry of her child.

We are all of us born in moral stupidity, taking the world as an udder to feed our supreme selves

Oh, child, men's men: gentle or simple, they're much of a muchness.

Death is the only physician, the shadow of his valley the only journeying that will cure us of age and the gathering fatigue of years.