We all have our prayer-wheels which we set up on the steppes. The indifferent winds come and carry most of them away to gasp out their little lives in the desert, for few reach heaven.

Liberty lies in the hearts of men and women; when it dies there, no constitution, no law, no court can save it; no constitution, no law, no court can even do much to help it.

The language of the law must not be foreign to the ears of those who are to obey it.

The art of publicity is a black art.

It is enough that we set out to mold the motley stuff of life into some form of our own choosing; when we do, the performance is itself the wage.

We prate of freedom; we are in deadly fear of life, as much of our own American scene betrays.

Life is made up of constant calls to action, and we seldom have time for more than hastily contrived answers.