Dreaming is the poetry of Life, and we must be forgiven if we indulge in it a little.

Idealism increases in direct proportion to one's distance from the problem.

We are all familiar with the argument: Make war dreadful enough, and there will be no war. And we none of us believe it.

It was such a spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or grass, and fling out his arms to embrace he knows not what.

From behind a wooden crate we saw a long black-muzzled nose poking round at us. We took him out-soft, wobbly, tearful; set him down on his four, as yet not quite simultaneous legs, and regarded him. He wandered a little round our legs, neither wagging his tail nor licking at our hands; then he looked up, and my companion said: "He's an angel!"

By the cigars they smoke, and the composers they love, ye shall know the texture of men's souls.