Memory Is A Net: One That Finds

Our Brains Are Seventy-year Clocks. The Angel Of Life Winds Them Up Once For All, Then Closes The Case, And Gives The Key Into The Hand Of The Angel Of The Resurrection.

As We Grow Older We Think More And More Of Old Persons And Of Old Things And Places. As To Old Persons, It Seems As If We Never Know How Much They Have To Tell Until We Are Old Ourselves And They Have Been Gone Twenty Or Thirty Years. Once In A While We Come Upon Some Survivor Of His Or Her Generation That We Have Overlooked, And Feel As If We Had Recovered One Of The Lost Books Of Livy Or Fished Up The Golden Candlestick From The Ooze Of The Tiber.

When Men Have Realized That Time Has Upset Many Fighting Faiths, They May Come To Believe... That The Ultimate Good Desired Is Better Reached By Free Trade In Ideas-- That The Best Test Of Truth Is The Power Of The Thought To Get Itself Accepted In The Competition Of The Market, And That Truth Is The Only Ground Upon Which Their Wishes Safely Can Be Carried Out. That At Any Rate Is The Theory Of Our Constitution. It Is An Experiment. As All Life Is An Experiment. Every Year If Not Every Day We Wager Our Salvation Upon Some Prophecy Based Upon Imperfect Knowledge.

Language Is The Blood Of The Soul Into Which Thoughts Run And Out Of Which They Grow.

The Very Aim And End Of Our Institutions Is Just This: That We May Think What We Like And Say What We Think.