It Was A Book To Kill Time

Words Move, Turning Over Like Tumbling Clowns; Like Certain Books And Like Fleas, They Possess Activity. All Men Equally Have The Right To Say, 'this Word Shall Bear This Meaning,' And See If They Can Get It Across. It Is A Sporting Game, Which All Can Play, Only All Cannot Win.

One Could Do With A Longer Year - So Much To Do, So Little Done, Alas.

One Day I Shall Write A Little Book Of Conduct Myself, And I Shall Call It Social Problems Of The Unsociable. And The Root Problem, Beneath A Hundred Varying Manifestions, Is How To Escape. How To Escape, That Is, At Those Times, Be They Few Or Frequent, When You Want To Keep Yourself To Yourself.

There's One Thing About Freedom ... Each Generation Of People Begins By Thinking They've Got It For The First Time In History, And Ends By Being Sure The Generation Younger Than Themselves Have Too Much Of It. It Can't Really Always Have Been Increasing At The Rate People Suppose, Or There Would Be More Of It By Now.

The Very Utterness Of The Crash And Ruin, The Desperation Of The Case, Might Be Its Hope. On Ruins One Can Begin To Build. Anyhow, Looking Out From Ruins One Clearly Sees; There Are No Obstructing Walls.