We are all products of our time, vulnerable to history.

Love from one being to another can only be that two solitudes come nearer, recognize and protect and comfort each other.

I really can't hate more than 5 or 10 years. Wouldn't it be terrible to be always burdened with those primary emotions you had at one time?

Strange are the ways of history, where no single thing abides, but all things flow into each other, fragment to fragment clinging.

Persecution matures young rebels.

History, the winnowing wind, never halts. We see the chaff rise, forget the waiting grain, seed of the future, fallen to the threshing floor. We never learn, but live on, slit-narrow, as if our living were a pencil line traced upon paper, behaving as trapped denizens of a flat world hemmed in by the bigoted horizon of our own making. Yet the meaning of living is a pushing back, a pulling down of the great walls and domes of fear and ignorance, is relinquishing the nest for the sky, ignorance for understanding. The look back is also a look forward.

One should never condemn what one cannot understand.