Tradition is a fine thing. Nothing comes out of the blue, except perhaps thunderbolts and they are not really very useful things.

Memory, with its fugitive adjustments, is the merciful veil to the grim enactments of the first law. It hides the anguish in the human heart which is always craving for perpetuity.

It is always easier to be an epicure of a small repast than of a banquet.

If memory survived eternally, then indeed there might be justification for a belief in hell.

Tradition is a fine thing. Nothing comes out of the blue, except perhaps thunderbolts and they are not really very useful things.

Unless you are a Bernard Shaw you find a preface a most embarrassing business.

One lives everything down in time.