Fain would we remain barbarians, if our claim to civilization were to be based on the gruesome glory of war.

True beauty could be discovered only by one who mentally complete the incomplete.

The outsider may indeed wonder at this seeming much ado about nothing. What a tempest in a tea-cup! he will say. But when we consider how small after all the cup of human enjoyment is, how soon overflowed with tears, how easily drained to the dregs in our quenchless thirst for infinity, we shall not blame ourselves for making so much of the tea-cup.

Tea is more than an idealization of the form of drinking; it is a religion of the art of life.

For life is an expression, our unconscious actions the constant betrayal of our innermost thought. Perhaps we reveal ourselves too much in small things because we have so little of the great to conceal. The tiny incidents of daily rouitine are as much a commentary of racial ideas as the highest flight of philosophy or poetry.

Fain would we remain barbarians, if our claim to civilization were to be based on the gruesome glory of war.

In joy or sadness, flowers are our constant friends.