In History As It Comes To Be

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.

Any Euphemism Ceases To Be Euphemistic After A Time And The True Meaning Begins To Show Through. It's A Losing Game, But We Keep On Trying.

We Must Not Judge The Society Of The Future By Considering Whether Or Not We Should Like To Live In It; The Question Is Whether Those Who Have Grown Up In It Will Be Happier Than Those Who Have Grown Up In Our Society Or Those Of The Past.

Every Time A Value Is Born, Existence Takes On A New Meaning; Every Time One Dies, Some Part Of That Meaning Passes Away.

In History As It Comes To Be Written, There Is Usually Some Spirit Of The Age Which Historians Can Define, But The Shape Of Things Is Seldom So Clear To Those Who Live Them. To Most Thoughtful Men It Has Generally Seemed That Theirs Was An Age Of Confusion.