Though I have no productive worth, I have a certain value as an indestructible quantity.

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

Physical pain however great ends in itself and falls away like dry husks from the mind, whilst moral discords and nervous horrors sear the soul.

How sick one gets of being "good," how much I should respect myself if I could burst out and make everyone wretched for twenty-four hours; embody selfishness.

How fatally the entire want of humor cripples the mind.

The success or failure of a life, as far as posterity goes, seems to lie in the more or less luck of seizing the right moment of escape

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