Sarcasm... the protest of those who are weak.

There was no harm in taking aim, even if the target was a dream.

It seemed clear that wars were not made by generations and their special stupidities, but that wars were made instead by something ignorant in the human heart

I felt that I was not, never had been and never would be a living part of this overpoweringly solid and deeply meaningful world around me.

The summer of 1943 at Exeter was as happy a time as I ever had in my life.

You have to do what you think is the right thing, but just make sure it’s the right thing in the long run, and not just for the moment.

Sarcasm is the protest of the weak.