Scratch the Christian and you find the pagan — spoiled

No... the real American has not yet arrived. He is only in the Crucible, I tell you—he will be the fusion of all races, perhaps the coming superman.

Oh, for the simple life, For tents and starry skies!

How full and rich a world Theirs to inhabit is— Sweet scent of grass and bloom, Playmates’ glad symphony, Cool touch of western wind, Sunshine’s divine caress.

No Jew was ever fool enough to turn Christian unless he was a clever man.

America is God's Crucible, the great Melting-Pot where all the races of Europe are melting and re-forming!

The past is our cradle, not our prison, and there is danger as well as appeal in its glamour. The past is for inspiration, not imitation, for continuation, not repetition.