Why Haven't We Seventy Lives? One Is

The World, With All Its Beauty And Adventure, Its Richness And Variety, Is Darkened By Cruelty. Death, If It Ends The Loveliness, The Adventure, Ends Also That. Death Balances The Picture.

Nature Is Not Silent, And Never Was A Name More Derisively Inappropriate Than When We Speak Of These Non-human Creatures Who Hoot And Crow And Bray As The Dumb Animals.

The Only Difficulty Is To Know What Bits To Choose And What To Leave Out. Novel-writing Is Not Creation, It Is Selection.

We Are So Little, So Ignorant, So Feeble An Infant Race Crawling On A Planet Between Immensities We Haven't Even Begun To Understand, That Really We Have No Grounds For Either Congratulation Or Despair.

Life Flows On Over Death As Water Closes Over A Stone Dropped Into A Pool. ... Fate Is Certain; Death Is Certain; But The Courage And Nobility Of Men And Women Matter More Than These.