It Is Unfair To Blame

Everybody Thinks Of Others As Being Excessively Human, With All The Frailties And Crotchets Appertaining To That Curious Condition. But Each Of Us Also Seems To Regard Himself As Existing On A Detached Plane Of Observation, Exempt (save In Moments Of Avid Crisis) From The Strange Whims Of Humanity En Masse.

Truth Is What Every Man Sees Lurking At The Bottom Of His Own Soul, Like The Oyster Shell Housewives Put In The Kitchen Kettle To Collect The Lime From The Water. By And By Each Man's Iridescent Oyster Shell Of Truth Becomes Coated With The Lime Of Prejudice And Hearsay.

They Go In [to The Library] Not Because They Need Any Certain Volume But Because They Feel That There May Be Some Book That Needs Them.

Words Are A Commodity In Which There Is Never Any Slump.

Any Man Worth His Salt Has By The Time He Is Forty-five Accumulated A Crown Of Thorns, And The Problem Is To Learn To Wear It Over One Ear.