Whatever a man imagines he can attain, if he doesn't become too arrogant and encroach on the rights of the gods.

I have seen the science I worshiped, and the aircraft I loved, destroying the civilization I expected them to serve.

What freedom lies in flying, what Godlike power it gives to men . . . I lose all consciousness in this strong unmortal space crowded with beauty, pierced with danger.

God made life simple. It is man who complicates it.

Is he alone who has courage on his right hand and faith on his left hand?

While my hand is on the stick, my feet on the rudder, and my eyes on the compass, this consciousness, like a winged messenger, goes out to visit the waves below, testing the warmth of water, the speed of wind, the thickness of intervening clouds. It goes north to the glacial coasts of Greenland, over the horizon to the edge of dawn, ahead to Ireland, England, and the continent of Europe, away through space to the moon and stars, always returning, unwillingly, to the mortal duty of seeing that the limbs and muscles have attended their routine while it was gone.

Flying has torn apart the relationship of space and time: it uses our old clock but with new yardsticks.