And the thing which is missing is love, some feeling for, as well as some understanding of, the inclusive community of rocks and soils, plants and animals, of which we are a part.
Though many have tried, no one has ever yet explained away the decisive fact that science, which can do so much, cannot decide what it ought to do.
A tragic writer does not have to believe in God, but he must believe in man.
August creates as she slumbers, replete and satisfied.
There are some optimists who search eagerly for the skunk cabbage which in February sometimes pushes itself up through the ice, and who call it a sign of spring. I wish that I could feel that way about it, but I do not. The truth of the matter, to me, is simply that skunk cabbage blooms in the winter time.
When, in the present world, men behave well, that is no doubt sometimes because they are creatures of habit as well as, sometimes, because they are reasonable.
Man is, perhaps, no more prone to war than he used to be and no more inclined to commit other evil deeds. But a given amount of ill will or folly will go further than it used to.
Every time a value is born, existence takes on a new meaning; every time one dies, some part of that meaning passes away.
The cockroach and the bird were both here long before we were. Both could.
The typical American believes that no necessity of the soul is free and that there are precious few, if any, which cannot be bought.
The grand paradox of our society is this: we magnify man’s right but we minimize his capacities.
Custom has furnished the only basis which ethics have ever had.
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