The less one notices happiness, the greater it is.

War has become an affair of machines...and soldiers are little more than clever mechanics.

The novel as we knew it in the nineteenth century was killed off by Proust and Joyce.

It is what we are forced to do that forms our character, not what we do of our own free will.

Loyalty, Signor Molteni, not love. Penelope is loyal to Ulysses but we do not know how far she loved him...and as you know people can sometimes be absolutely loyal without loving. In certain cases, in fact, loyalty is form of vengeance, of black-mail, of recovering one's self-respect. Loyalty, not love.

Because the world to-day is so constructed that no one can do what he would like to do, and he is forced, instead, to do what others wish him to do. Because the question of money always intrudes—into what we do, into what we are, into what we wish to become, into our work, into our highest aspirations, even into our relations with the people we love!

The less one notices happiness, the greater it is.