The Moon is a white strange world, great, white, soft-seeming globe in the night sky, and what she actually communicates to me across space I shall never fully know. But the Moon that pulls the tides, and the Moon that controls the menstrual periods of women, and the Moon that touches the lunatics, she is not the mere dead lump of the astronomist. . . . When we describe the Moon as dead, we are describing the deadness in ourselves. When we find space so hideously void, we are describing our own unbearable emptiness.

When I wish I was rich, then I know I am ill.

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me! A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.

One doesn't know, till one is a bit at odds with the world, how much one's friends who believe in one rather generously, mean to one.

The true artist doesn't substitute immorality for morality. On the contrary, he always substitutes a finer morality for a grosser one.

It is no good casting out devils. They belong to us, we must accept them and be at peace with them.

Only in a novel are all things given full play.