Modern politics is, at bottom, a struggle not of men but of forces. The men become every year more and more creatures of force, massed about central powerhouses. The conflict is no longer between the men, but between the motors that drive the men, and the men tend to succumb to their own motive forces.

The photograph is a coarse fraud, and seems to delight only in taking the whole beauty out of the picture.

Friends are born, not made.

Every man should have a fair-sized cemetary in which to bury the faults of his friends.

Good men do the most harm.

Intimates are predestined.

If I grapple with sin in my own strength, the devil knows he may go to sleep.