Truly nothing is to be expected except for the unexpected.

It is so comic to hear oneself called old, even at ninety I suppose!

Who would ever give up the reality of dreams for relative knowledge?

Ah! Those strange people who have the courage to be unhappy! Are they unhappy, by the way?

If I can get on to my sofa and occupy myself for four hours, at intervals through the day, scribbling my notes, and able to read the books that belong to me, in that they clarify the density, and shape the formless mass within, life seems inconceivably rich.

The difficulty about all this dying, is that you can't tell a fellow anything about it, so where does the fun come in?

What one reads, or rather all that comes to us, is surely only of interest and value in proportion as we find ourselves therein, -- form given to what was vague, what slumbered stirred to life.