The lives of desperation that most men lead at least used to be quiet.
The obscurest epoch is today.
We remember what we believe, and believe what we remember.
We are more like our contemporaries than we imagine, and less like our ancestors.
The historian imagines leaders who move nations by themselves, as the physicist imagines spherical cows of uniform density.
We call past ages unhappy with no better warrant than that we suppose we would have been unhappy in them.
Every contemporary freethinker would believe in Christianity if born in medieval England, and slavery if born in ancient Rome.
All agree that memory is fugitive, but few draw the necessary conclusion about identity.
Our descendants will regard us for hanging men as we regard our ancestors for hanging dogs.
We owe modern clangor to the unremitting efforts of generations of quiet and sedentary men.
Mute inglorious Miltons, flowers born to blush unseen and waste their sweetness on the desert air, are extinct, and I miss them.