That Which Is Clearly Known Hath Less

His Neighbor Is A Tooth-drawer. That Bag At His Girdle Is Full Of The Teeth That He Drew At Winchester Fair. I Warrant That There Are More Sound Ones Than Sorry, For He Is Quick At His Work And A Trifle Dim In The Eye.

To The Man Who Loves Art For Its Own Sake, It Is Frequently In Its Least Important And Lowliest Manifestations That The Keenest Pleasure Is To Be Derived.

Sherlock Holmes Took His Bottle From The Corner Of The Mantel-piece, And His Hypodermic Syringe From Its Neat Morocco Case. With His Long, White, Nervous Fingers He Adjusted The Delicate Needle, And Rolled Back His Left Shirt-cuff. For Some Little Time His Eyes Rested Thoughtfully Upon The Sinewy Forearm And Wrist, All Dotted And Scarred With Innumerable Puncture-marks. Finally, He Thrust The Sharp Point Home, Pressed Down The Tiny Piston, And Sank Back Into The Velvet-lined Armchair With A Long Sigh Of Satisfaction.

...while The Individual Man Is An Insoluble Puzzle, In The Aggregate He Becomes A Mathematical Certainty.

It Is With Nations As It Is With Individuals. A Book Of History Is A Book Of Sermons.