You Must Save What You Can Of

We Trust To Novels To Train Us In The Practice Of Great Indignations And Great Generosity.

She Is Written In A Foreign Tongue.

It Had Been Agreed Between Them That Lighted Candles At Wayside Inns, In Strange Countries Amid Mountain Scenery, Gave The Evening Meal A Peculiar Poetry.

To Live Only To Suffer—only To Feel The Injury Of Life Repeated And Enlarged—it Seemed To Her She Was Too Valuable, Too Capable, For That. Then She Wondered If It Were Vain And Stupid To Think So Well Of Herself. When Had It Even Been A Guarantee To Be Valuable? Wasn't All History Full Of The Destruction Of Precious Things? Wasn't It Much More Probable That If One Were Fine One Would Suffer?

One Can't Judge Till One's Forty; Before That We're Too Eager, Too Hard, Too Cruel, And In Addition Much Too Ignorant.