You Can Cram A Truth Into An

Bouillabaisse Is Only Good Because Cooked By The French, Who, If They Cared To Try, Could Produce An Excellent And Nutritious Substitute Out Of Cigar Stumps And Empty Matchboxes.

I Wish The English Still Possessed A Shred Of The Old Sense Of Humour Which Puritanism, And Dyspepsia, And Newspaper Reading, And Tea-drinking Have Nearly Extinguished.

There Is A Kinship, A Kind Of Freemasonry, Between All Persons Of Intelligence, However Antagonistic Their Moral Outlook.

I Can Find No Room In My Cosmos For A Deity Save As A Waste Product Of Human Weakness, The Excrement Of The Imagination.

What Is All Wisdom Save A Collection Of Platitudes? Take Fifty Of Our Current Proverbial Sayings—they Are So Trite, So Threadbare, That We Can Hardly Bring Our Lips To Utter Them. None The Less They Embody The Concentrated Experience Of The Race, And The Man Who Orders His Life According To Their Teaching Cannot Go Far Wrong. How Easy That Seems! Has Any One Ever Done So? Never. Has Any Man Ever Attained To Inner Harmony By Pondering The Experience Of Others? Not Since The World Began! He Must Pass Through The Fire.