I remember in grammar school the teacher asked if anyone had any hobbies. I was the only one with any hobbies and I had every hobby there was... name anything, no matter how esoteric. I could have given everyone a hobby and still had 40 or 50 to take home.

It is personal. That's what an education does. It makes the world personal.

What joins men together ... is not the sharing of bread but the sharing of enemies.

I guess you ought to be careful about cussin the dead. I would say at the least there probably ain't no luck in it.

The world is quite ruthless in selecting between the dream and the reality, even where we will not.

He looked at a world of incredible loveliness. Old distaff Celt's blood in some back chamber of his brain moved him to discourse with the birches, with the oaks. A cool green fire kept breaking in the woods and he could hear the footsteps of the dead. Everything had fallen from him. He scarce could tell where his being ended or the world began nor did he care. He lay on his back in the gravel, the earth's core sucking his bones, a moment's giddy vertigo with this illusion of falling outward through blue and windy space, over the offside of the planet, hurtling through the high thin cirrus.

I guess if everybody went crazy together nobody would notice.