A society which allows an abominable event to burgeon from its dung heap and grow on its surface is like a man who lets a fly crawl unheeded across his face or saliva dribble from his mouth — either epileptic or dead.
In the world we live in everything militates in favor of things that have not yet happened, of things that will never happen again.
Like a kick in the butt, the force of events wakes slumberous talents.
One of the extraordinary things about human events is that the unthinkable becomes thinkable.
The enemy of the conventional wisdom is not ideas but the march of events.
The great events of life often leave one unmoved; they pass out of consciousness, and, when one thinks of them, become unreal. Even the scarlet flowers of passion seem to grow in the same meadow as the poppies of oblivion.