The delight we find in art amounts to recognition of a saving grace, to an acknowledgment that the problem of life has a solution implicit in its own nature, though not yet formulated by the intellect.

Without doubt cats are intellectuals who have been, by some mysterious decree of Providence, deprived of the comfort of the word.

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.

But there are other things than dissipation that thicken the features. Tears, for example.

Did St. Francis preach to the birds? Whatever for? If he really liked birds he would have done better to preach to the cats.

Just how difficult it is to write biography can be reckoned by anybody who sits down and considers just how many people know the real truth about his or her love affairs.

Women know the damnation of charity because the habit of civilization has always been to throw them cheap alms rather than give them good wages.