Journalism is a giant catapult set in motion by pigmy hatreds.
Courtesy is only a thin veneer on the general selfishness.
Virtue, my pet, is an abstract idea, varying in its manifestations with the surroundings. Virtue in Provence, in Constantinople, in London, and in Paris bears very different fruit, but is none the less virtue.
Who is to decide which is the grimmer sight: withered hearts, or empty skulls?
Virtue in women is perhaps a question of temperament.
Tradesmen regard an author with a mixed feeling of terror, compassion and curiosity.