A Man Who Has Never Made A

The World Has Been Printing Books For 450 Years, And Yet Gunpowder Still Has A Wider Circulation. Never Mind! Printer's Ink Is The Greater Explosive: It Will Win.

There Is No Mistaking A Real Book When One Meets It. It Is Like Falling In Love.

A Critic Is A Gong At A Railroad Crossing Clanging Loudly And Vainly As The Train Goes By.

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.

The Human Mind Appears Suddenly And Inexplicably Out Of Some Unknown And Unimaginable Void. It Passes Half Its Known Life In The Mental Chaos Of Sleep. Even When Awake It Is A Victim Of Its Own Ill-adjustment, Of Disease, Of Age, Of External Suggestion, Of Nature's Compulsions; It Doubts Its Own Sensations And Trusts Only In Instruments And Averages.