Large, heavy, ragged black clouds hung like crape hammocks beneath the starry cope of the night. You would have said that they were the cobwebs of the firmament.
Prayer is an august avowal of ignorance.
Word which the finger of God has written on the brow of every man — hope!
Not being heard is no reason for silence.
My tastes are aristocratic, my actions democratic.
The last resort of kings, the cannonball. The last resort of the people, the paving stone.