We have a criminal jury system which is superior to any in the world; and its efficiency is only marred by the difficulty of finding twelve men every day who don't know anything and can't read.

Why are not more gems from our great authors scattered over the country? Great books are not in everybody's reach; and though it is better to know them thoroughly than to know them only here and there, yet it is a good work to give a little to those who have not the time nor means to get more.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Here's the funny thing about the response I've been aware of to my dating famous people: It's been very negative. I'm either not good-looking enough, not a good enough actor or not successful enough for these people.

Dax Shepard

The gift of fantasy has meant more to me than my talent for absorbing positive knowledge.

Albert Einstein

We're all of us guinea pigs in the laboratory of God. Humanity is just a work in progress.

Tennessee Williams

Every so often, I turn on the television and see one of the movement leaders being asked some idiot question like,

Nora Ephron, Crazy Salad, ch. 5,

Even things that are true can be proved.

Oscar Wilde

Every writer creates his own precursors. His work modifies our conception of the past, as it will modify the future.

Jorge Luis Borges

All right, they're on our left, they're on our right, they're in front of us, they're behind us... they can't get away this time. When Surrounded By 8 Enemy Divisions During WW2

Chesty Puller

I can still see it. There's a love seat, two armchairs with a lamp table in between. Jack Kennedy is sitting in one armchair and Bobby Kennedy's sitting in the other. Mr. President, it's absurd, I'm not qualified. Look, Bob, he said, I don't think there's any school for Presidents either.

Robert McNamara

Oigo voces en mi cabeza, y si no recuerdo mal, lo he hecho siempre.

Stephen King

Friendship's the privilege of private men for wretched greatness knows no blessing so substantial.

Nahum Tate

But what Kezia liked more than anything, what she liked frightfully, was the lamp. It stood in the middle of the dining-room table, an exquisite little amber lamp with a white globe. It was filled all ready for lighting, though, of course, you couldn't light it. But there was something inside that looked like oil and moved when you shook it. The father and mother dolls, who sprawled very stiff as though they had fainted in the drawing-room, and their two little children asleep upstairs, were really too big for the doll's house. They didn't look as though they belonged. But the lamp was perfect. It seemed to smile at Kezia, to say, 'I live here.' The lamp was real.

Katherine Mansfield, The Doll's