The beginnings and endings of all human undertakings are untidy.

By the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love, ye shall know the texture of men's souls.

Memory heaps dead leaves on corpse-like deeds, from under which they do but vaguely offend the sense.

Religion was nearly dead because there was no longer real belief in future life; but something was struggling to take its place - service - social service - the ants creed, the bees creed.

The French cook; we open tins.

We are all familiar with the argument: Make war dreadful enough, and there will be no war. And we none of us believe it.

Beauty means this to one person, perhaps, and that to the other. And yet when any one of us has seen or heard or read that which to us is beautiful, we have known an emotion which is in every case the same in kind, if not in degree; an emotion precious and uplifting.