The war, therefore, if we judge it by the standards of previous wars, is merely an imposture. It is like the battles between certain ruminant animals whose horns are set at such an angle that they are incapable of hurting one another.
A good pig is a dead pig.
The slum, with its dirt and its queer lives, was first an object-lesson in poverty, and then the background of my own experiences.
The weariness of the cell is the vigour of the organism.
The parents sat round watching, and in their crass faces—faces not harsh or evil, only blunted by ignorance and mean virtues—you could see a solemn approval, a solemn pleasure in the spectacle of sin rebuked.
Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless.