It Is Probably True To

I Know Of No Place Where The Wind Can Be As Icy And The Damp So Penetrating As In Oxford Round About Easter Time.

We Should Never Be At The Mercy Of Providence If Only We Understood That We Ourselves Are Providence.

Why, I Wonder, Do People Who At One Time Or Another Have All Been Young Themselves, And Who Ought Therefore To Know Better, Generalize So Suavely And So Mendaciously About The Golden Hours Of Youth-that Period Of Life When Every Sorrow Seems Permanent, And Every Setback Insuperable?

Babies Are A Nuisance, Of Course. But So Does Everything Seem To Be That Is Worth While – Husbands And Books And Committees And Being Loved And Everything. We Have To Choose Between Barren Ease And Rich Unrest – Or Rather, One Does Not Choose.

The Joys Of Motherhood Are Not Excessively Apparent During The First Few Weeks Of A Baby's Life.