A people always ends by resembling its shadow.

When man has come to the Turnstiles of Night, all the creeds in the world seem to him wonderfully alike and colorless.

As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn, The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Our loves are not given, but only lent, At compound interest of cent per cent.

The American has no language, he has a dialect, slang, provincialism, accent and so forth

The Three in One, the One in Three? Not so! To my own Gods I go. It may be they shall give me greater ease than your cold Christ and tangled Trinities.

If you do not get what you want, it is a sure sign that you did not seriously want it.