The grand paradox of our society is this: we magnify man’s right but we minimize his capacities.
Rhetoric takes no real account of the art in literature and morality takes no account of the art in life.
Every time a value is born, existence takes on a new meaning; every time one dies, some part of that meaning passes away.
Custom has furnished the only basis which ethics have ever had.
The cockroach and the bird were both here long before we were. Both could.
Though many have tried, no one has ever yet explained away the decisive fact that science, which can do so much, cannot decide what it ought to do.
Man is, perhaps, no more prone to war than he used to be and no more inclined to commit other evil deeds. But a given amount of ill will or folly will go further than it used to.
A tragic writer does not have to believe in God, but he must believe in man.
The typical American believes that no necessity of the soul is free and that there are precious few, if any, which cannot be bought.
And the thing which is missing is love, some feeling for, as well as some understanding of, the inclusive community of rocks and soils, plants and animals, of which we are a part.
August creates as she slumbers, replete and satisfied.
When, in the present world, men behave well, that is no doubt sometimes because they are creatures of habit as well as, sometimes, because they are reasonable.
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