I know of no American who starts from a higher level of aspiration than the journalist. . . . He plans to be both an artist and a moralist -- a master of lovely words and merchant of sound ideas. He ends, commonly, as the most depressing jackass of his community -- that is, if his career goes on to what is called a success.

The curse of man, and the cause of nearly all his woe, is his stupendous capacity for believing the incredible.

No romantic novel ever written in America, by man or woman, is one half so beautiful as My Ántonia.

Who ever heard, indeed, of an autobiography that was not (interesting)? I can recall none in all the literature of the world

There is, in fact, no reason to believe that any given natural phenomenon, however marvelous it may seem today, will remain forever inexplicable. Soon or late the laws governing the production of life itself will be discovered in the laboratory, and man may set up business as a creator on his own account. The thing, indeed, is not only conceivable; it is even highly probable.

The central belief of every moron is that he is the victim of a mysterious conspiracy against his common rights and true deserts.

The editors are committed to nothing save this: to keep common sense as fast as they can, to belabor sham as agreeably as possible, to give civilized entertainment.