When one wishes to play the wit, he sometimes wander a little from the truth.

I know a planet where there is a certain red-faced gentleman. He has never smelled a flower. He has never looked at a star. He has never loved any one. He has never done anything in his life but add up figures. And all day he says over and over, just like you: 'I am busy with matters of consequence!' And that makes him swell up with pride. But he is not a man - he is a mushroom!

In giving you are throwing a bridge across the chasm of your solitude.

To live is to be slowly born.

When one wishes to play the wit, he sometimes wander a little from the truth.

He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man.

For instance, if you come at four in the afternoon, I'll begin to be happy by three. The closer it gets to four, the happier I'll feel. By four I'll be excited and worried; I'll discover what it costs to be happy! But if you come at any od time, I'll never know when I should prepare my heart... There must be rites.