Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.
Nothing with God can be accidental.
The country is not priest-ridded, but press-ridden.
Evil is only good perverted.
No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.
The day is done; and slowly from the scene the stooping sun upgathers his spent shafts, and puts them back into his golden quiver!