Truth Is The Ricochet Of A Prejudice

The Bicycle, The Bicycle Surely, Should Always Be The Vehicle Of Novelists And Poets.

Standing By The Crib Of One's Own Baby, With That World - Old Pang Of Compassion And Protectiveness Toward This So Little Creature That Has All Its Course To Run, The Heart Flies Back In Yearning And Gratitude To Those Who Felt Just So Toward One's Self. Then For The First Time One Understands The Homely Succession Of Sacrifices And Pains By Which Life Is Transmitted And Fostered Down The Stumbling Generations Of Men.

If We Discovered That We Only Had Five Minutes Left To Say All That We Wanted To Say, Every Telephone Booth Would Be Occupied By People Calling Other People To Stammer That They Loved Them.

It's A Good Thing To Turn Your Mind Upside Down Now And Then, Like An Hour-glass, To Let The Particles Run The Other Way.

The Human Mind Appears Suddenly And Inexplicably Out Of Some Unknown And Unimaginable Void. It Passes Half Its Known Life In The Mental Chaos Of Sleep. Even When Awake It Is A Victim Of Its Own Ill-adjustment, Of Disease, Of Age, Of External Suggestion, Of Nature's Compulsions; It Doubts Its Own Sensations And Trusts Only In Instruments And Averages.