Religion Was Their Meat And Their Excitement,

Only The Brave Should Teach....teaching Is A Vocation. It Is As Sacred As Priesthood; As Innate A Desire, As Inescapable As The Genius Which Compels A Great Artist. If He Has Not The Concern For Humanity, The Love Of Living Creatures, The Vision Of The Priest And The Artist, He Must Not Teach.

An Englishman Is Never Afraid Of Being Laughed At. He Just Thinks The Other Fellow Is A Fool. But Americans Still Can't Risk Anybody Laughing At Them.

Somehow I Had Learned From Thoreau, Who Doubtless Learned It From Confucius, That If A Man Comes To Do His Own Good For You, Then Must You Flee That Man And Save Yourself

Never, If You Can Possibly Help It, Write A Novel. It Is, In The First Place, A Thoroughly Unsocial Act. It Makes One Obnoxious To One's Family And To One's Friends. One Sits About For Many Weeks, Months, Even Years, In The Worst Cases, In A State Of Stupefaction.

Yet There Were Times When He Did Love Her With All The Kindness She Demanded, And How Was She To Know What Were Those Times? Alone She Raged Against His Cheerfulness And Put Herself At The Mercy Of Her Own Love And Longed To Be Free Of It Because It Made Her Less Than He And Dependent On Him. But How Could She Be Free Of Chains She Had Put Upon Herself? Her Soul Was All Tempest. The Dreams She Had Once Had Of Her Life Were Dead. She Was In Prison In The House. And Yet Who Was Her Jailer Except Herself?