History is a bucket of ashes.

People are always good company when they are doing what they really enjoy.

The human intellect owes its superiority over that of the lower animals in great measure to the stimulus which alcohol has given imagination.

Youth is like spring, an over praised season more remarkable for biting winds than genial breezes. Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.

A definition is the enclosing a wilderness of idea within a wall of words.

Since God himself cannot change the past, He is obliged to tolerate the existence of historians.

History is a bucket of ashes.