Every Branch Of Human Knowledge, If Traced

There Are Certain Scenes, Certain Hills And Valleys And Groves Of Pines Which Demand That A Story Shall Be Written About Them. I Would Refine; I Would Say That The Emotions Aroused By These External Things Reverberating In The Heart Are Indeed The Story; Or All That Signifies The Story....we Translate A Hill Into A Tale, Conceive Lovers To Explain A Brook, Turn The Perfect Into The Imperfect.

Silence Is Not Weakness And Decency Is Not Pride

In Every Grain Of Wheat There Lies Hidden The Soul Of A Star.

It Appears To Me That It [sin] Is Simply An Attempt To Penetrate Into Another And Higher Sphere In A Forbidden Manner. You Can Understand Why It Is So Rare. There Are Few, Indeed, Who Wish To Penetrate Into Other Spheres, Higher Or Lower, In Ways Allowed Or Forbidden. Men, In The Mass, Are Amply Content With Life As They Find It. Therefore There Are Few Saints, And Sinners (in The Proper Sense) Are Fewer Still.

Very Softly, But Very Swiftly, Last, The Man With The Grey Face And The Staring Eyes, Bolted For His Life, Down And Away From The White House. Once In The Road, Free From The Fields And Brakes, He Changed His Run Into A Walk, And He Never Paused Or Stopped, Till He Came With A Gulp Of Relief Into The Ugly Streets Of The Big Industrial Town. He Made Hi Way To The Station At Once, And Found That He Was An Hour Too Soon For The London Express. So, There Was Plenty Of Time For Breakfast; Which Consisted Of Brandy.