All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.

The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory. The old lie: It is sweet and fitting that you should die for your country.

Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.

I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.

I don't ask myself, is the life congenial to me? But, am I fitted for, am I called to, the Ministry?

Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.