If few can stand a long war without deterioration of soul, none can stand a long peace.

At last, in the gray dawn of Civilization the fire in the Soul dies down. The dwindling powers rise to one more, half-successful, effort of creation, and produce the Classicism that is common to all dying Cultures. The soul thinks once again, and in Romanticism looks back piteously to its childhood; then finally, weary, reluctant, cold, it loses its desire to be, and, as in Imperial Rome, wishes itself out of the overlong daylight and back in the darkness of protomysticism in the womb of the mother in the grave.

We have learned that history is something that takes no notice whatever of our expectations.

The last man of the world-city no longer wants to live--he may cling to life as an individual, but as a type, as an aggregate, no, for it is a characteristic of this collective existence that it eliminates the terror of death.

Fortunately, at the last hour, there were always a few soldiers to save Civilization.

What is truth? For the multitude, that which it continually reads and hears.

History is direction—but Nature is extension—ergo, everyone gets eaten by a bear.