Work is prayer. Work is also stink. Therefore stink is prayer.

Reality, however utopian, is something from which people feel the need of taking pretty frequent holidays.

The course of every intellectual, if he pursues his journey long and unflinchingly enough, ends in the obvious, from which the non-intellectuals have never stirred.

Books have their destinies like men. And their fates, as made by generations of readers, are very different from the destinies foreseen for them by their authors. Gulliver's Travels, with a minimum of expurgation, has become a children's book; a new illustrated edition is produced every Christmas. That's what comes of saying profound things about humanity in terms of a fairy story.

Art, I suppose, is only for beginners, who have made up in their minds to be content with symbols rather than with what they signify, with the elegantly composed recipe in lieu of actual dinner.

Can you say something about nothing?

A majority of young people seem to develop mental arteriosclerosis forty years before they get the physical kind.