i
WE are like billiard balls in a game played by unskilful players,
continually being nearly sent into a pocket, but hardly ever getting
right into one, except by a fluke.
ii
We are like thistle-down blown about by the wind—up and down, here and
there—but not one in a thousand ever getting beyond seed-hood.
iii
A man is a passing mood coming and going in the mind of his country; he
is the twitching of a nerve, a smile, a frown, a thought of shame or
honour, as it may happen.
iv
How loosely our thoughts must hang together when the whiff of a smell, a
band playing in the street, a face seen in the fire, or on the gnarled
stem of a tree, will lead them into such vagaries at a moment’s warning.
v
When I was a boy at school at Shrewsbury, old Mrs. Brown used to keep a
tray of spoiled tarts which she sold cheaper. They most of them looked
pretty right till you handled them. We are all spoiled tarts.
vi
He is a poor creature who does not believe himself to be better than the
whole world else. No matter how ill we may be, or how low we may have
fallen, we would not change identity with any other person. Hence our
self-conceit sustains and always must sustain us till death takes us and
our conceit together so that we need no more sustaining.
vii
Man must always be a consuming fire or be consumed. As for hell, we are
in a burning fiery furnace all our lives—for what is life but a process
of combustion?