No Truth Is Strong Enough To Defeat

The World, With All Its Beauty And Adventure, Its Richness And Variety, Is Darkened By Cruelty. Death, If It Ends The Loveliness, The Adventure, Ends Also That. Death Balances The Picture.

If We Haven't A Grouch Against Fortune, We Seem Unable To Avoid One Against Ourselves.

There's Never Been A Lack Of Men Willing To Die Bravely. The Trouble Is To Find A Few Able To Live Sensibly.

I Find You In All Small And Lovely Things; In The Little Fishes Like Flames In The Green Water, In The Furred And Stupid Softness Of Bumble-bees Fat As Laughter, In All The Chiming Radiance Of Warmth And Light And Scent In The Summer Garden.

I Can't Think Why I Was Cursed With This Inordinate Desire To Write, If The High Gods Weren't Going To Give Me Some More Adquate Means Of Expressing Myself Than That Which My Present Pedestrian Prose Affords.