One doesn't know, till one is a bit at odds with the world, how much one's friends who believe in one rather generously, mean to one.

Every man has a mob self and an individual self, in varying proportions.

I think societal instinct much deeper than sex instinct — and societal repression much more devastating.

Hate's a growing thing like anything else. It's the inevitable outcome of forcing ideas onto life, of forcing one's deepest instincts; our deepest feelings we force according to certain ideas.

Sex is just another form of talk, where you act the words instead of saying them.

The trains roared by like projectiles level on the darkness, fuming and burning, making the valley clang with their passage. They were gone, and the lights of the towns and villages glittered in silence.

Tragedy ought really to be a great kick at misery.