The Only Substance Properly So Called Is

The Ideal, After All, Is True Than The Real: For The Ideal Is The Eternal Element In Perishable Things.

Blessed Be Childhood, Which Brings Down Something Of Heaven Into The Midst Of Our Rough Earthliness.

He Who Floats With The Current, Who Does Not Guide Himself According To Higher Principles, Who Has No Ideal, No Convictions-such A Man Is . . . A Thing Moved, Instead Of A Living And Moving Being-an Echo, Not A Voice. The Man Who Has No Inner-life Is A Slave Of His Surroundings As The Barometer Is The Obedient Servant Of The Air.

Analysis Kills Spontaneity. The Grain Once Ground Into Flour Springs And Germinates No More.

An Error Is The More Dangerous In Proportion To The Degree Of Truth Which It Contains.