The goal in life is to discover that you’ve always been where you were supposed to be.

The consistent thinker, the consistently moral man, is either a walking mummy or else, if he has not succeeded in stifling all his vitality, a fanatical monomaniac.

People intoxicate themselves with work so they won't see how they really are.

The poet's place, it seems to me, is with the Mr. Hydes of human nature.

The creation by word-power of something out of nothing--what is that but magic? And, may I add, what is that but literature?

Ignore death up to the last moment; then, when it can't be ignored any longer, have yourself squirted full of morphia and shuffle off in a coma. Thoroughly sensible, humane and scientific, eh?

In spite of language, in spite of intelligence and intuition and sympathy, one can never really communicate anything to anybody. The essential substance of every thought and feeling remains incommunicable, locked up in the impenetrable strong-room of the individual soul and body. Our life is a sentence of perpetual solitary confinement.