There are three cures for ennui: sleep, drink and travel.

And yet - and yet - one's kite will rise on the wind as far as ever one has string to let it go. It tugs and tugs and will go, and one is glad the further it goes, even if everybody else is nasty about it.

The soul is a very perfect judge of her own motions, if your mind doesn't dictate to her.

Let there be an end ... of all this welter of pity, which is only self-pity reflected onto some obvious surface.

Once you abstract from this, once you generalize and postulate Universals, you have departed from the creative reality, and entered the realm of static fixity, mechanism, materialism.

For to desire is better than to possess, the finality of the end was dreaded as deeply as it was desired.

There is a brief time for sex, and a long time when sex is out of place. But when it is out of place as an activity there still should be the large and quiet space in the consciousness where it lives quiescent. Old people can have a lovely quiescent sort of sex, like apples, leaving the young quite free for their sort.