How often could things be remedied by a word. How often is it left unspoken.

I can find no room in my cosmos for a deity save as a waste product of human weakness, the excrement of the imagination.

How often could things be remedied by a word. How often is it left unspoken.

What is all wisdom save a collection of platitudes? Take fifty of our current proverbial sayings—they are so trite, so threadbare, that we can hardly bring our lips to utter them. None the less they embody the concentrated experience of the race, and the man who orders his life according to their teaching cannot go far wrong. How easy that seems! Has any one ever done so? Never. Has any man ever attained to inner harmony by pondering the experience of others? Not since the world began! He must pass through the fire.

Education is a state-controlled manufactory of echoes.

He talks about the Scylla of Atheism and the Charybdis of Christianity - a state of mind which, by the way, is not conducive to bold navigation.

Wine is a precarious aphrodisiac, and its fumes have blighted many a mating.