Truth Is The Ricochet Of A Prejudice

Standing By The Crib Of One's Own Baby, With That World - Old Pang Of Compassion And Protectiveness Toward This So Little Creature That Has All Its Course To Run, The Heart Flies Back In Yearning And Gratitude To Those Who Felt Just So Toward One's Self. Then For The First Time One Understands The Homely Succession Of Sacrifices And Pains By Which Life Is Transmitted And Fostered Down The Stumbling Generations Of Men.

There Is An Innate Decorum In Man, And It Is Not Fair To Thrust Truth Upon People When They Don't Expect It. Only The Very Generous Are Ready For Truth Impromptu.

Beauty Is Ever To The Lonely Mind A Shadow Fleeting; She Is Never Plain. She Is A Visitor Who Leaves Behind The Gift Of Grief, The Souvenir Of Pain.

Being In A Hurry Seems So Fiercely Important When You Yourself Are The Hurrier And So Comically Ludicrous When It Is Someone Else.

There Is No Mistaking A Real Book When One Meets It. It Is Like Falling In Love, And Like That Colossal Adventure It Is An Experience Of Great Social Import. Even As The Tranced Swain, The Booklover Yearns To Tell Others Of His Bliss. He Writes Letters About It, Adds It To The Postscript Of All Manner Of Communications, Intrudes It Into Telephone Messages, And Insists On His Friends Writing Down The Title Of The Find. Like The Simple-hearted Betrothed, Once Certain Of His Conquest