The war is dreadful. It is the business of the artist to follow it home to the heart of the individual fighters - not to talk in armies and nations and numbers - but to track it home.

The world is wonderful and beautiful and good beyond one's wildest imagination.

The unhappiness of a wife with a good husband is much more devastating than the unhappiness of a wife with a bad husband.

The human consciousness is really homogeneous. There is no complete forgetting, even in death.

Only the flow matters; live and let live, love and let love. There is no point in love.

The mind is "ashamed" of the blood. And the blood is destroyed by the mind, actually. Hence palefaces.

If a woman hasn't got a tiny streak of harlot in her, she's a dry stick as a rule.