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.