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

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.

People never think about words, they only feel them.

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

Sadness is so ungrateful.

Persecution matures young rebels.

With some people there is such a thing as the habit of betrayal.