I Never Saw The Man Yet That

... In The Nineteen-thirties ... The Most Casual Reader Of Murder Mysteries Could Infallibly Detect The Villain, As Soon As There Entered A Character Who Had Recently Washed His Neck And Did Not Commit Mayhem On The English Language.

He Felt With The Force Of A Revelation That To Throw Up The Clods Of Earth Manfully Is As Beneficent As To Revolutionize The World. It Was Not The Matter Of The Work, But The Mind That Went Into It, That Counted - And The Man Who Was Not Content To Do Small Things Well Would Leave Great Things Undone.

It Was A Perfect Spring Afternoon, And The Air Was Filled With Vague, Roving Scents, As If The Earth Exhaled The Sweetness Of Hidden Flowers.

Conscience Represents A Fetich To Which Good People Sacrifice Their Own Happiness, Bad People Their Neighbors'.

Borrowed Illusions Are Better Than None.