Between Ourselves, There Is No Such Thing,

The Human Mind Appears Suddenly And Inexplicably Out Of Some Unknown And Unimaginable Void. It Passes Half Its Known Life In The Mental Chaos Of Sleep. Even When Awake It Is A Victim Of Its Own Ill-adjustment, Of Disease, Of Age, Of External Suggestion, Of Nature's Compulsions; It Doubts Its Own Sensations And Trusts Only In Instruments And Averages.

Words Are A Commodity In Which There Is Never Any Slump.

America Is Still A Government Of The Naive, For The Naive, And By The Naive. He Who Does Not Know This, Nor Relish It, Has No Inkling Of The Nature Of His Country.

Everybody Thinks Of Others As Being Excessively Human, With All The Frailties And Crotchets Appertaining To That Curious Condition. But Each Of Us Also Seems To Regard Himself As Existing On A Detached Plane Of Observation, Exempt (save In Moments Of Avid Crisis) From The Strange Whims Of Humanity En Masse.

Men Talk Of "finding God," But No Wonder It Is Difficult; He Is Hidden In That Darkest Hiding-place, Your Heart. You Yourself Are A Part Of Him.