The writer is the Faust of modern society, the only surviving individualist in a mass age. To his orthodox contemporaries he seems a semi-madman.

It is not the object described that matters, but the light that falls on it.

Salvation lies not in the faithfulness to forms, but in the liberation from them.

Good-bye... why am I hemorrhaging ?

Art is unthinkable without risk and spiritual self-sacrifice.

As for the men in power, they are so anxious to establish the myth of infallibility that they do their utmost to ignore truth.

And when the war broke out, its real horrors, its real dangers, its menace of real death were a blessing compared with the inhuman reign of the lie, and they brought relief because they broke the spell of the dead letter.