One may not regard the world as a sort of metaphysical brothel for emotions.

Without the hard little bits of marble which are called 'facts' or 'data' one cannot compose a mosaic; what matters, however, are not so much the individual bits, but the successive patterns into which you arrange them, then break them up and rearrange them.

A publisher who writes is like a cow in a milk bar.

There is only one prospect worse than being chained to an intolerable existence: The nightmare of a botched attempt to end it.

God seems to have left the receiver off the hook and time is running out.

History knows no scruples and no hesitation. Inert and unnering flows towards her goal. History knows herway. She makes no mistakes.

When a person identifies himself with a group his critical faculties are diminished and his passions enhanced by a kind of emotive resonance. The individual is not a killer, the group is, and by identifying with it, the individual becomes one. This is the infernal dialect reflected in man's history.