To every man in the world there is one person of whom he knows little: whom he would never recognize if he met him walking down the street, whose motives are a mystery to him. That is himself.

Like all bad drivers, he [Henry Andrews] thought he was the best driver in the world...

sentences were used by man before words and still come with the readiness of instinct to his lips. They, and not words, are the foundations of all language. ... Your cat has no words, but it has considerable feeling for the architecture of the sentence in relation to the problem of expressing climax.

I have no faith in the sense of comforting beliefs which persuade me that all my troubles are blessings in disguise.

Here lies the real terror in the international war of ideologies; that a city knows not whom it entertains.

I had come to Yugoslavia to see what history meant in flesh and blood.

To every man in the world there is one person of whom he knows little: whom he would never recognize if he met him walking down the street, whose motives are a mystery to him. That is himself.