We Cannot Hope To Scale Great Moral

There Is Something Frightful In Being Required To Enjoy And Appreciate All Masterpieces; To Read With Equal Relish Milton, And Dante, And Calderon, And Goethe, And Homer, And Scott, And Voltaire, And Wordsworth, And Cervantes, And Molière, And Swift.

When The Milk Of Human Kindness Turns Sour, It Is A Singularly Unpalatable Draught.

Cats, Even When Robust, Have Scant Liking For The Boisterous Society Of Children, And Are Apt To Exert Their Utmost Ingenuity To Escape It. Nor Are They Without Adult Sympathy In Their Prejudice.

I Wonder What Especial Sanctity Attaches Itself To Fifteen Minutes. It Is Always The Maximum And The Minimum Of Time Which Will Enable Us To Acquire Languages, Etiquette, Personality, Oratory ... One Gathers That Twelve Minutes A Day Would Be Hopelessly Inadequate, And Twenty Minutes A Wasteful And Ridiculous Excess.

The Great Dividing Line Between Books That Are Made To Be Read And Books That Are Made To Be Bought Is Not The Purely Modern Thing It Seems. We Can Trace It, If We Try, Back To The First Printing-presses.