It's funny the respectable names you can give to superstition.

It is no one's privilege to despise another. It is only a hard-won right after long experience.

The newsmen were writing down sentences busily as Hoskins spoke to them. They did not understand and they were sure their readers would not, but it sounded scientific and that was what counted.

I don't say it was deliberate fraud. He was probably madly sincere, and sincerely mad.

Printing will tell you such useful things and such interesting things that not being able to read would be as bad as not being able to see.

The Dantean conceptions of Inferno were childish and unworthy of the Divine imagination: fire and torture. Boredom is much more subtle. The inner torture of a mind unable to escape itself in any way, condemned to fester in its own exuding mental pus for all time, is much more fitting. Oh, yes, my friend, we have been judged, and condemned, too, and this is not Heaven, but hell.

We face eternity now. We have no universe left, no outside phenomena, no emotions, no passions. Nothing but ourselves and thought. We face an eternity of introspection, when all through history we have never known what to do with ourselves on a rainy Sunday.

He could almost wish he were superstitious. He could then console himself with the thought that the casual meaningless meeting had really been directed by a knowing and purposeful Fate.

What a human being believes, however, no matter with what ardor, is not necessarily objective truth.

Self-preservation has frequently knuckled under to that tremendous yearning to get even.