A novelist has mad a fictional representation of life. I doing so, he has revealed to us more significance, it may be, than he could find in life itself.

The trouble with Reason is that it becomes meaningless at the exact point where it refuses to act.

Art is the terms of an armistice signed with fate.

The trouble with the sacred Individual is that he has no significance, except as he can acquire it from others, from the social whole.

This is the violet hour, the hour of hush and wonder, when the affectations glow and valor is reborn, when the shadows deepen along the edge of the forest and we believe that, if we watch carefully, at any moment we may see the unicorn.

Something can be done with people who put pickled onions in: strangulation seems best.

Sure the people are stupid: the human race is stupid. Sure Congress is an inefficient instrument of government. But the people are not stupid enough to abandon representative government for any other kind, including government by the guy who knows.