Compendium of St. Thomas Aquinas Summa Theologica
Oct 25, 2026 · 8 hr 5 min · 18 segments
"Powder of Sympathy" by Christopher Morley is a captivating exploration of human connection and the intricacies of relationships. This timeless narrative delves into the themes of empathy and…
Epigraph and dedication.
Epigraph.
Strange, when you come to think of it, that of all the countless folk who have lived before our time on this planet, not one is known in history or in legend as having died of laughter.
Max Beerbohm.
Dedication.
To Felix Riesenberg and Franklin Abbott.
Dear Felix, dear Frank, it is a pleasant circumstance that as one sets about collecting material for a book, scissoring night after night among scrapbooks to determine what may or may not be worth revisiting, the glimpses of the press, there comes to mind with perfect naturalness who should carry the onus of the dedication.
For a book is a frail and human emanation, and has its own instinctive disposition toward a certain kind of people.
These powders of sympathy I hopefully sprinkle in your direction.
Another good friend warned me seriously some time ago against the danger of being too apologetic in a preface.
For, said he, people always read prefaces and dedications, even if not else.
If you deprecate, you at once persuade them to the same attitude.
And to you two of all readers, I need not explain just how these pieces were written, day by day, out of the pressure and hilarity and contention of the mind.
I have made no attempt to conceal their ephemeral origin.
They were almost all written for a newspaper, and contain many references to journalism.
And, if I may speak my inmost heart, I have had a sincere hope that they might, in collected form, play some small part in encouraging the youngest generation of journalists to be themselves and set things down as they see them.
If these powders have any pharmical virtue, other than that of sidelets, it is likely to be relative, not absolute.
I mean, it is remarkable that they should have been written at all.
Remarkable that any newspaper should take the pains to offer space to speculations of this sort.
I have not scrupled, on occasion, to chaff some of the matters newspapers are supposed to hold sacred.
And it is my privilege, by the way, to say my gratitude and affection to Mr. Edwin F.
Gay, editor of the New York Evening Post, under whose jurisdiction these were written.
With the generosity of the ideal employer, he has encouraged my ejaculations, even when he did not agree with them.
But a columnist, it is frequently said, is not a real newspaper man.
He is only a debauched editorial writer, a fallen angel abjected from the secure heaven of anonymity.
Epigraph and dedication.
Epigraph.
Strange, when you come to think of it, that of all the countless folk who have lived before our time on this planet, not one is known in history or in legend as having died of laughter.
Max Beerbohm.
Dedication.
To Felix Riesenberg and Franklin Abbott.
Dear Felix, dear Frank, it is a pleasant circumstance that as one sets about collecting material for a book, scissoring night after night among scrapbooks to determine what may or may not be worth revisiting, the glimpses of the press, there comes to mind with perfect naturalness who should carry the onus of the dedication.
For a book is a frail and human emanation, and has its own instinctive disposition toward a certain kind of people.
These powders of sympathy I hopefully sprinkle in your direction.
Another good friend warned me seriously some time ago against the danger of being too apologetic in a preface.
For, said he, people always read prefaces and dedications, even if not else.
If you deprecate, you at once persuade them to the same attitude.
And to you two of all readers, I need not explain just how these pieces were written, day by day, out of the pressure and hilarity and contention of the mind.
I have made no attempt to conceal their ephemeral origin.
They were almost all written for a newspaper, and contain many references to journalism.
And, if I may speak my inmost heart, I have had a sincere hope that they might, in collected form, play some small part in encouraging the youngest generation of journalists to be themselves and set things down as they see them.
If these powders have any pharmical virtue, other than that of sidelets, it is likely to be relative, not absolute.
I mean, it is remarkable that they should have been written at all.
Remarkable that any newspaper should take the pains to offer space to speculations of this sort.
I have not scrupled, on occasion, to chaff some of the matters newspapers are supposed to hold sacred.
And it is my privilege, by the way, to say my gratitude and affection to Mr. Edwin F.
Gay, editor of the New York Evening Post, under whose jurisdiction these were written.
With the generosity of the ideal employer, he has encouraged my ejaculations, even when he did not agree with them.
But a columnist, it is frequently said, is not a real newspaper man.
He is only a debauched editorial writer, a fallen angel abjected from the secure heaven of anonymity.
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