People always make war when they say they love peace.

The near touch of death may be a release into life; if only it will break the egoistic will, and release that other flow.

She looked at him, and oh, the weariness to her, of the effort to understand another language, the weariness of hearing him, attending to him, making out who he was, as he stood there fair-bearded and alien, looking at her. She knew something of him, of his eyes. But she could not grasp him. She closed her eyes.

Ours is essentially a tragic age, so we refuse to take it tragically. The cataclysm has happened, we are among the ruins, we start to build up new little habitats, to have new little hopes. It is rather hard work: there is now no smooth road into the future: but we go round, or scramble over the obstacles. We’ve got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen.

Money is our madness, our vast collective madness.

The more scholastically educated a man is generally, the more he is an emotional boor.

I'd wipe the machines off the face of the earth again, and end the industrial epoch absolutely, like a black mistake.