Life is a maze in which we take the wrong turning before we have learned to walk.

The artist one day falls through a hole in the brambles, and from that moment he is following the dark rapids of an underground river which may sometimes flow so near to the surface that the laughing picnic parties are heard above.

Most people do not believe in anything very much and our greatest poetry is given to us by those who do.

In the sex war, thoughtlessness is the weapon of the male, vindictiveness of the female.

A mutually fulfilled sexual union between two people is the rarest sensation which life can provide. But it is not quite real. It stops when the telephone rings. Such a passion can be kept at its early strength only by adding to it either more and more unhappiness (jealousy, separation, doubt, renunciation), or more and more artificiality (drink, technique, stage-illusions). Whoever has missed this has never lived, who lives for it alone is but partly alive.

The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married.

When young we are faithful to individuals, when older we grow loyal to situations and to types.