Imagine how terrifying it would be if we had to decide the beginnings of things for ourselves: as to what race we should belong, what sex, and all that, instead of placidly coming out of unconsciousness to find it all arranged!

Imagine how terrifying it would be if we had to decide the beginnings of things for ourselves: as to what race we should belong, what sex, and all that, instead of placidly coming out of unconsciousness to find it all arranged!

It doesn't so much matter what one loves. To love is the transfiguring thing.

Mother love is invariably held sacred, as it should be, but why has father love never had its due?

Neither a garden nor a gardener can be made in one year, nor in one generation even.

Why is it that so many people think that charity consists in giving away merely what they cannot use instead of the article the recipient needs?

what is life worth if one has nothing to give away? This lack, it seems to me, must be the sharpest pang of poverty.