No holiday is ever anything but a disappointment.

Hell isn't merely paved with good intentions; it's walled and roofed with them. Yes, and furnished too.

What a gulf between impression and expression! That’s our ironic fate—to have Shakespearean feelings and (unless by some billion-to-one chance we happen to be Shakespeare) to talk about them like automobile salesmen or teen-agers or college professors. We practice alchemy in reverse—touch gold and it turns into lead; touch the pure lyrics of experience, and they turn into the verbal equivalents of tripe and hogwash.

The Christian idea of a perfect heaven that is something other than a non-existence is a contradiction in terms.

Wild inside; raging, writhing—yes, "writhing" was the word, writhing with desire. But outwardly he was hopelessly tame; outwardly—baa, baa, baa.

The ductless glands secrete among other things our moods, our aspirations, our philosophy of life.

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.