But memory, after a time, dispenses its own emphasis, making a feuilleton of what we once thought most ponderable, laying its wreath on what we never thought to recall.

I don't suppose there's really any critic except posterity.

The standard dreaming of a society has to be listened to.

The novel is rescued life.

Balance is compromise. Of the muscles.

perhaps there's no sharper spur to meditation than answered prayer.

But memory, after a time, dispenses its own emphasis, making a feuilleton of what we once thought most ponderable, laying its wreath on what we never thought to recall.