the law, like art, is always vainly racing to catch up with experience.

The aged are terrible - mere heaps of cinders on the grass from which none can tell how tall the flames once were or what company gathered round them.

It would be no loss to the world if most of the writers now writing had been strangled at birth.

I cannot see that art is anything less than a way of making joys perpetual.

The adventure is over. Everything gets over, and nothing is ever enough. Except the part you carry with you.

The childhood of the individual and the race is full of fears, and panic-stricken attempts to avert what is feared by placating the gods with painful sacrifices.

Babbitt as a book was planless; its end arrived apparently because its author had come to the end of the writing-pad, or rather, one might suspect from its length, to the end of all writing-pads then on the market.