August creates as she slumbers, replete and satisfied.

If we do not permit the earth to produce beauty and joy, it will in the end not produce food, either.

Nature, in her blind thirst for life has filled every possible cranny of the rotting earth with some sort of fantastic creature.

Civilizations die from philosophical calm, irony, and a sense of fair play quite as surely as they die of debauchery.

When, in the present world, men behave well, that is no doubt sometimes because they are creatures of habit as well as, sometimes, because they are reasonable.

Being the inventor of sex would seem to be a sufficient distinction for a creature just barely large enough to be seen by the naked eye.

Nature takes no account of even the most reasonable of human excuses.