The last spectacle of which Christian men are likely to grow tired is a harbour. Centuries hence there may be jumping-off places for the stars, and our children's children's and so forth children may regard a ship as a creeping thing scarcely more adventurous than a worm. Meanwhile, every harbour gives us a sense of being in touch, if not with the ends of the universe, with the ends of the earth.

No man is uninteresting when his hat is blown off and he has to scuttle after it down the street.

We forget that Socrates was famed for wisdom not because he was omniscient but because he realized at the age of seventy that he still knew nothing.

We cannot get happiness by striving after it, and yet with an effort we can impart it.

It is the custom when praising a Russian writer to do so at the expense of all other Russian writers.

There are two sorts of curiosity - the momentary and the permanent. The momentary is concerned with the odd appearance on the surface of things. The permanent is attracted by the amazing and consecutive life that flows on beneath the surface of things.

The belief in the possibility of a short decisive war appears to be one of the most ancient and dangerous of human illusions.