A Man Who Has Never Made A

One Of The Penalties Of Being A Human Being Is Other Human Beings.

Between Ourselves, There Is No Such Thing, Abstractly, As A 'good' Book. A Book Is 'good' Only When It Meets Some Human Hunger Or Refutes Some Human Error.

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.

If You Have To Keep Reminding Yourself Of A Thing, Perhaps It Isn't So.

Perhaps This Is An Age When Men Think Bravely Of The Human Spirit; For Surely They Have A Strange Lust To Lay It Bare.