In history as it comes to be written, there is usually some Spirit of the Age which historians can define, but the shape of things is seldom so clear to those who live them. To most thoughtful men it has generally seemed that theirs was an Age of Confusion.

Every age has a keyhole to which its eye is pasted.

At each epoch of history the world was in a hopeless state, and at each epoch of history the world muddled through; at each epoch the world was lost, and at each epoch it was saved.

All thoughts are always ready, potentially if not actually. Each age selects and assimilates the philosophy that is most apt for its wants.

These are the times that try men's souls.

Every epoch, under names more or less specious, has deified its peculiar errors.

The altar cloth of one aeon is the doormat of the next.

Each age has its choice of the death it will die.

Every epoch has its character determined by the way its population re-act to the material events which they encounter.

We live in the age of the overworked and the undereducated.