I well recall my horror when I heard for the first time, of a journalist who had laid in a pair of what were then called bicycle pants and taken to golf; it was as if I had encountered a studhorse with his hair done up in frizzes, and pink bowknots peeking out of them. It seemed, in some vague way, ignominious, and even a bit indelicate.

After all, the world is not our handiwork, and we are not responsible for what goes on in it, save within very narrow limits.

At eight or nine, I suppose intelligence is no more than a small spot of light on the floor of a large and murky room.

This combat between proletariat and plutocracy is, after all, itself a civil war. Two inferiorities struggle for the privilege of polluting the world.

Morality is doing what is right, no matter what you are told. Religion is doing what you are told, no matter what is right.

No form of liberty is worth a darn [sic] which doesn't give us the right to do wrong now and then.

The only time you have a free press is when you own one.