Death […] people nowadays seem to regard as something odd, whereas it is well known to be the commonest thing in the world. - Hilaire Belloc

That I grow sour, who only lack delight;
That I descend to sneer, who only grieve:
That from my depth I should contemn your height;
That with my blame my mockery you receive;
Huntress and splendour of the woodland night,
Diana of this world, do not believe.

Mr. Orage, one of the most active and intelligent reformers for the last generation in England, attempted this very thing. He, in his little intellectual review which was supported by so brilliant a group of writers for so many years, published week after week the ingredients of the English patent medicines and the cost of those ingredients. Not a single one of the newspapers followed suit, or dared publish so much as the fact that Orage was thus acting courageously in his own limited sphere for the public good.

I watched a train come in. It was full of
tourists, who (it may have been a subjective illusion) seemed to me common
and worthless people, and sad into the bargain.