Why Haven't We Seventy Lives?

Why, Why, When One Writes, Does A Sort Of Shackle Bind One's Imagination? I Become Conscious Of A Deadening Mediocrity, Perhaps A Form Of Mental Cowardice, And I Long To Break Free, To Let My Imagination Take Wings. It Doesn't - Yet.

Progress. There's A Good Deal Too Much O' This Progress About Nowadays, An', What's More, It'll Have To Stop.

This Alone Is To Be Feared - The Closed Mind, The Sleeping Imagination, The Death Of The Spirit. The Death Of The Body Is To That, I Think, A Little Thing.

Remorse ... Is One Of The Many Afflictions For Which Time Finds A Cure.

If We Haven't A Grouch Against Fortune, We Seem Unable To Avoid One Against Ourselves.