Words Are A Commodity In Which There

Printer's Ink Has Been Running A Race Against Gunpowder These Many, Many Years. Ink Is Handicapped, In A Way, Because You Can Blow Up A Man With Gunpowder In Half A Second, While It May Take Twenty Years To Blow Him Up With A Book. But The Gunpowder Destroys Itself Along With Its Victim, While A Book Can Keep On Exploding For Centuries.

There Is No Mistaking A Real Book When One Meets It. It Is Like Falling In Love.

Read, Every Day, Something No One Else Is Reading. Think, Every Day, Something No One Else Is Thinking.

The Evening Papers Print What They Do And Get Away With It Because By Afternoon The Human Mind Is Ruined Anyhow.

Truth And Beauty (perhaps Keats Was Wrong In Identifying Them: Perhaps They Have The Relation Of Wit And Humour, Or Rain And Rainbow) Are Of Interest Only To Hungry People. There Are Several Kinds Of Hunger. If Socrates, Spinoza, And Santayana Had Had Free Access To A Midnight Icebox We Would Never Have Heard Of Them. Shall I Be Ashamed Of My Little Mewing Truths?... I Ask To Be Forgiven: They Are Such Tiny Ones.