Pure morality is only an instinctive adjustment which the soul makes.

No absolute is going to make the lion lie down with the lamb: unless the lamb is inside.

They were evidently small men, all wind and quibbles, flinging out their chuffy grain to us with far less interest than a farm-wife feels as she scatters corn to her fowls.

If you cut a thing up, of course it will smell. Hence, nothing raises such an infernal stink at last, as human psychology.

How ravished one could be without ever being touched. Ravished by dead words become obscene and dead ideas become obsessions.

For my part, I prefer my heart to be broken. It is so lovely, dawn-kaleidoscopic within the crack.

How I hate the attitude of ordinary people to life. How I loathe ordinariness! How from my soul I abhor nice simple people, with their eternal price list. It makes my blood boil.