There Is No Fury Like That Against

The Art Of Publicity Is A Black Art.

Our Dangers, As It Seems To Me, Are Not From The Outrageous But From The Conforming; Not From Those Who Rarely And Under The Lurid Glare Of Obloquy Upset Our Moral Complaisance, Or Shock Us With Unaccustomed Conduct, But From Those, The Mass Of Us, Who Take Their Virtues And Their Tastes, Like Their Shirts And Their Furniture, From The Limited Patterns Which The Market Offers.

It Was Not The Violence Of Our Enemies [in World War I] That Would Undo Us, I Thought, But Our Own Spiritual Weakness, The Shallowness Of Our Convictions.

You Cannot Raise The Standard Against Oppression, Or Leap Into The Breach To Relieve Injustice, And Still Keep An Open Mind To Every Disconcerting Fact, Or An Open Ear To The Cold Voice Of Doubt. I Am Satisfied That A Scholar Who Tries To Combine These Parts Sells His Birthright For A Mess Of Pottage; That, When The Final Count Is Made, It Will Be Found That The Impairment Of His Powers Far Outweighs Any Possible Contribution To The Causes He Has Espoused.

Would We Hold Liberty, We Must Have Charity- Charity To Others, Charity To Ourselves, Crawling Up From The Moist Ovens Of A Steaming World, Still Carrying The Passional Equipment Of Our Ferocious Ancestors, Emerging From Black Superstition Amid Carnage And Atrocity To Our Perilous Present.