I have the conviction that excessive literary production is a social offence.
It is a narrow mind which cannot look at a subject from various points of view.
Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending.
There are men whose presence infuses trust and reverence.
A peasant can no more help believing in a traditional superstition than a horse can help trembling when be sees a camel.
Will not a tiny speck very close to our vision blot out the glory of the world, and leave only a margin by which we see the blot? I know no speck so troublesome as self.