People always make war when they say they love peace.

Comes over one an absolute necessity to move. And what is more, to move in some particular direction. A double necessity then: to get on the move, and to know whither.

The great home of the soul is the open road.

He who gets nearer the sun is leader, the aristocrat of aristocrats, or he who, like Dostoevsky, gets nearest the moon of our non-being.

Away with all ideals. Let each individual act spontaneously from the forever incalculable prompting of the creative wellhead within him. There is no universal law.

Sleep seems to hammer out for me the logical conclusions of my vague days, and offer them to me as dreams.

I am convinced that the air we normally breathe is a kind of water, and men and women are a species of fish.