A Strong Foe Is Better Than A

What Has A Writer To Be Bombastic About? Whatever Good A Man May Write Is The Consequence Of Accident, Luck, Or Surprise, And Nobody Is More Surprised Than An Honest Writer When He Makes A Good Phrase Or Says Something Truthful.

When One Realizes That His Life Is Worthless He Either Commits Suicide Or Travels.

No People Require Maxims So Much As The American. The Reason Is Obvious: The Country Is So Vast, The People Always Going Somewhere, From Oregon Apple Valley To Boreal New England, That We Do Not Know Whether To Be Temperate Orchards Or Sterile Climate.

Men Are Mad Most Of Their Lives; Few Live Sane, Fewer Die So. The Acts Of People Are Baffling Unless We Realize That Their Wits Are Disordered. Man Is Driven To Justice By His Lunacy.

Evil, Which Is Our Companion All Our Days, Is Not To Be Treated As A Foe. It Is Wrong To Cocker Vice, But We Grow Narrow And Pithless If We Are Furtive About It, For This Is At Best A Pretense, And The Sage Knows Good And Evil Are Kindred. The Worst Of Men Harm Others, And The Best Injure Themselves.