We Are Often More Merciful

Without The Hope Of Posterity, For Our Race If Not For Ourselves, Without The Assurance That We Being Dead Yet Live, All Pleasures Of The Mind And Senses Sometimes Seem To Me No More Than Pathetic And Crumbling Defences Shored Up Against Our Ruin.

You Never Forget The People Who Were Kind To You In Childhood, Do You, Sir?

If This Were Fiction, Could Even The Most Brilliant Novelist Contrive To Make Credible So Short A Period In Which Pride Had Been Subdued And Prejudice Overcome?

Charm Is Often Despised But I Can Never See Why. No One Has It Who Isn't Capable Of Genuinely Liking Others, At Least At The Actual Moment Of Meeting And Speaking. Charm Is Always Genuine; It May Be Superficial But It Isn't False.

A Man Who Lives With Nature Is Used To Violence And Is Companionable With Death. There Is More Violence In An English Hedgerow Than In The Meanest Streets Of A Great City.