I Believe The Twenty-four Hour Day Has

To Destroy Is Still The Strongest Instinct Of Our Nature.

Not Philosophy, After All, Not Humanity, Just Sheer Joyous Power Of Song, Is The Primal Thing In Poetry.

A Crowd, Proportionately To Its Size, Magnifies All That In Its Units Pertains To The Emotions, And Diminishes All That In Them Pertains To Thought.

It Seems To Be A Law Of Nature That No Man, Unless He Has Some Obvious Physical Deformity, Ever Is Loth To Sit For His Portrait.

The Hospitable Instinct Is Not Wholly Altruistic. There Is Pride And Egoism Mixed Up With It.