In The Stress Of Modern Life, How

Wit Is A Pleasure-giving Thing, Largely Because It Eludes Reason; But In The Apprehension Of An Absurdity Through The Working Of The Comic Spirit There Is A Foundation Of Reason, And An Impetus To Human Companionship.

There Is A Secret And Wholesome Conviction In The Heart Of Every Man Or Woman Who Has Written A Book That It Should Be No Easy Matter For An Intelligent Reader To Lay Down That Book Unfinished. There Is A Pardonable Impression Among Reviewers That Half An Hour In Its Company Is Sufficient.

The Labors Of The True Critic Are More Essential To The Author, Even, Than To The Reader.

The Cure-alls Of The Present Day Are Infinitely Various And Infinitely Obliging. Applied Psychology, Autosuggestion, And Royal Roads To Learning Or To Wealth Are Urged Upon Us By Kindly, If Not Altogether Disinterested, Reformers. Simple And Easy Systems For The Dissolution Of Discord And Strife; Simple And Easy Systems For The Development Of Personality And Power. Booklets Of Counsel On 'how To Get What We Want,' Which Is Impossible; Booklets On 'visualization,' Warranted To Make Us Want What We Get, Which Is Ignoble.

The Delusions Of The Past Seem Fond And Foolish. The Delusions Of The Present Seem Subtle And Sane.