As life nears its end with me, I find myself meditating more and more upon the mystery of its nature and origin, yet without the least hope that I can find out the ways of the Eternal in this or in any other world.
If you think you can do it, you can.
All birds are incipient or would-be songsters in the spring. I find corroborative evidence of this even in the crowing of the cock.
Life is a struggle, but not a warfare.
Without the emotion of the beautiful, the sublime, the mysterious, there is no art, no religion, no literature.
If we take science as our sole guide, if we accept and hold fast that alone which is verifiable, the old theology must go.
