After people have repeated a phrase a great number of times, they begin to realize it has meaning and may even be true.

It may be that we exist and cease to exist in alternations, like the minute dots in some forms of toned printing or the succession of pictures on a cinema film. It may be that reality is an illusion of movement in an eternal, static, multidimensional universe. We may be only a story written on the ground of the inconceivable; the pattern on a rug beneath the feet of the incomprehensible.

An artist who theorizes about his work is no longer artist but critic.

After your first day of cycling, one dream is inevitable. A memory of motion lingers in the muscles of your legs, and round and round they seem to go. You ride through Dreamland on wonderful dream bicycles that change and grow.

This isn't a war," said the artilleryman. "It never was a war, any more than there's war between man and ants.

The teacher, whether mother, priest, or schoolmaster, is the real maker of history.

It's no use locking the door after the steed is stolen.