A great nation is any mob of people which produces at least one honest man a century.

I have often argued that a poet more than thirty years old is simply an overgrown child. I begin to suspect that there may be some truth in it.

Women decide the larger questions of life correctly and quickly, not because they are lucky guessers, not because they are divinely inspired, not because they practise a magic inherited from savagery, but simply and solely because they have sense. They see at a glance what most men could not see with searchlights and telescopes.... They are the supreme realists of the race.

The public, with its mob yearning to be instructed, edified and pulled by the nose, demands certainties; it must be told definitely and a bit raucously that this is true and that is false. But there are no certainties.

Religion, after all, is nothing but an hypothesis framed to account for what is evidentially unaccounted for.

Love begins like a triolet and ends like a college yell.

The intellectual heritage of the race belongs to the minority.