Why Art Thou But A Nest Of

It's A Curious Thing, This Thing We Call Civilization...we Think It Is An Affair Of Epochs, And Nations. It's Really An Affair Of Individuals. One Brother Will Be Civilized And The Other A Barbarian...all Civilization Comes Through Literature Now, Especially In Our Country. A Greek Got His Civilization By Talking And Looking, And In Some Measure A Parisian May Still Do It. But We, Who Live Remote From History And Monuments, We Must Read Or We Must Barbarise.

If We Like A Man's Dream, We Call Him A Reformer; If We Don't Like His Dream, We Call Him A Crank.

I Know, Indeed, Of Nothing More Subtly Satisfying And Cheering Than A Knowledge Of The Real Good Will And Appreciation Of Others. Such Happiness Does Not Come With Money, Nor Does It Flow From Fine Physical State. It Cannot Be Brought. But It Is The Keenest Joy, After All; And The Toiler's Truest And Best Reward.

Preach The Blessings Of Our Deeply Incorporated Civilization By The Mouths Of Our Eight-inch Guns.

The Mortality Of All Inanimate Things Is Terrible To Me, But That Of Books Most Of All.