Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Anything might be done in that time. Anything. Nothing. Oh, he had had hundreds of hours, and what had he done with them? Wasted them, spilt the precious minutes as though his reservoir were inexhaustible.

Dying is almost the least spiritual of our acts, more strictly carnal even than the act of love. There are Death Agonies that are like the strainings of the Costive at stool.

Orthodoxy is the diehard of the world of thought. It learns not, neither can it forget.

I want to know what passion is. I want to feel something strongly.

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

I know the outer world as well as you do, and I judge it. You know nothing of my inner world, and yet you presume to judge that world.

The surest way to work up a crusade in favor of some good cause is to promise people they will have a chance of maltreating someone. To be able to destroy with good conscience, to be able to behave badly and call your bad behavior 'righteous indignation' — this is the height of psychological luxury, the most delicious of moral treats.