There is one gratification an old author can afford a certain class of critics; that namely, of comparing him as he is with what he was. It is a pleasure to mediocrity to have its superiors brought within range.

I think it not improbable that man, like the grub that prepares a chamber for the winged thing it never has seen but is to be - that man may have cosmic destinies that he does not understand.

Even for practical purposes theory generally turns out the most important thing in the end.

Systems die; instincts remain.

People talk fundamentals and superlatives and then make some changes of detail.

Our morality seems to be only a check on the ultimate domination of force, just as our politeness is a check on the impulse of every pig to put his feet in the trough.

Pretty much all law consists in forbidding men to do something that they want to do.