There Are Certain People Whom One Feels

Blessed Is The Satirist; And Blessed The Ironist; Blessed The Witty Scoffer, And Blessed The Sentimentalist; For Each, Having Seen One Spoke Of The Wheel, Thinks To Have Seen All, And Is Content.

There Is No Mistaking A Real Book When One Meets It. It Is Like Falling In Love, And Like That Colossal Adventure It Is An Experience Of Great Social Import. Even As The Tranced Swain, The Booklover Yearns To Tell Others Of His Bliss. He Writes Letters About It, Adds It To The Postscript Of All Manner Of Communications, Intrudes It Into Telephone Messages, And Insists On His Friends Writing Down The Title Of The Find. Like The Simple-hearted Betrothed, Once Certain Of His Conquest

There Are Three Ingredients In The Good Life: Learning, Earning And Yearning.

The Most Interesting Persons Are Always Those Who Have Nothing Special To Do: Children, Nurses, Policemen And Actors At 11 O'clock In The Morning.

America Is Still A Government Of The Naive, For The Naive, And By The Naive. He Who Does Not Know This, Nor Relish It, Has No Inkling Of The Nature Of His Country.