As A Man Lives And Thinks, So

The Law Is What It Is-a Majestic Edifice, Sheltering All Of Us, Each Stone Of Which Rests On Another.

Art Is The One Form Of Human Energy In The Whole World, Which Really Works For Union, And Destroys The Barriers Between Man And Man. It Is The Continual, Unconscious Replacement, However Fleeting, Of Oneself By Another; The Real Cement Of Human Life; The Everlasting Refreshment And Renewal. For, What Is Grievous, Dompting, Grim, About Our Lives Is That We Are Shut Up Within Ourselves, With An Itch To Get Outside Ourselves. And To Be Stolen Away From Ourselves By Art Is A Momentary Relaxation From That Itching, A Minute's Profound, And As It Were Secret, Enfranchisement.

The Forsytes Were Resentful Of Something, Not Individually, But As A Family; This Resentment Expressed Itself In An Added Perfection Of Raiment, An Exuberance Of Family Cordiality, An Exaggeration Of Family Importance, And The Sniff. Danger So Indispensable In Bringing Out The Fundamental Quality Of Any Society, Group, Or Individual Was What The Forsytes Scented; The Premonition Of Danger Put A Burnish On Their Armour. For The First Time, As A Family, They Appeared To Have An Instinct Of Being In Contact, With Some Strange And Unsafe Thing.

Only Love Makes Fruitful The Soul. The Sense Of Form That Both Had In Such High Degree Prevented Much Demonstration; But To Be With Him, Do Things For Him, To Admire, And Credit Him With Perfection; And, Since She Could Not Exactly Wear The Same Clothes Or Speak In The Same Clipped, Quiet, Decisive Voice, To Dislike The Clothes And Voices Of Other Men - All This Was Precious To Her Beyond Everything.

Slang Is Vigorous And Apt. Probably Most Of Our Vital Words Were Once Slang.