The disasters of the world are due to its inhabitants not being able to grow old simultaneously. There is always a raw and intolerant nation eager to destroy the tolerant and mellow.

No one over thirty-five is worth meeting who has not something to teach us, something more than we could learn for ourselves, from a book.

Melancholy and remorse forms the deep leaden keel which enables us to sail into the wind of reality.

A mistake which is commonly made about neurotics is to suppose that they are interesting. It is not interesting to be always unhappy, engrossed with oneself, malignant and ungrateful, and never quite in touch with reality.

The river of truth is always splitting up into arms that reunite. Islanded between them, the inhabitants argue for a lifetime as to which is the mainstream.

Boys do not grow up gradually. They move forward in spurts like the hands of clocks in railway stations.

The shock, for an intelligent writer, of discovering for the first time that there are people younger than himself who think him stupid is severe.