Into every 1789 a little 1793 must fall.
Remembering
The obscurest epoch is today.
—Stevenson
The lives of desperation that most men lead at least used to be quiet.
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 supposing that 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.