Even A Vortex Is A Vortex In

War Can So Easily Be Gilt With Romance And Heroism And Solemn National Duty And Patriotism And The Like By Persons Whose Superficial Literary And Oratorical Talent Covers An Abyss Of Godforsaken Folly.

But A Mother Is Like A Broomstick Or Like The Sun In The Heavens, It Does Not Matter Which As Far As One's Knowledge Of Her Is Concerned: The Broomstick Is There And The Sun Is There; And Whether The Child Is Beaten By It Or Warmed And Enlightened By It, It Accepts It As A Fact In Nature, And Does Not Conceive It As Having Had Youth, Passions, And Weaknesses, Or As Still Growing, Yearning, Suffering, And Learning.

The World Was To Shakespeare A Great Stage Of Fools On Which He Was Utterly Bewildered. His Pregnant Observations Of Life Are Not Coordinated Into Any Philosophy.

A Man Who Loses His Money Gains, At The Least, Experience, And Sometimes, Something Better.

Forgive Him, For He Believes That The Customs Of His Tribe Are The Laws Of Nature!