Very Dangerous Things, Theories.

I Can't Think Why Fancy Religions Should Have Such A Ghastly Effect On One's Grammar. It's A Kind Of Intellectual Rot That Sets In, I'm Afraid.

A Person Who Tells A Secret, Swearing The Recipient To Secrecy In Turn, Is Asking Of The Other Person A Discretion Which He Is Abrogating Himself.

All Conscious Thought Is A Process In Time; So That To Think Consciously About Time Is Like Trying To Use A Foot-rule To Measure Its Own Length.

As I Grow Older And Older, And Totter Toward The Tomb, I Find That I Care Less And Less Who Goes To Bed With Whom.

There Were Crimson Roses On The Bench; They Looked Like Splashes Of Blood.