To think is to be sick.

No one will be much or little except in someone else's mind, so be careful of the minds you get into.

No man needs curing of his individual sickness; his universal malady is what he should look to.

When autumn shadows throw their patterns across the land, they are not the images of fragile, dying leaves, not the bared arms of lofty elms, not shadows of a fading summer; but swinging shapes as of books upon a strap, of round and square boxes held under an arm, of hurrying little people heading towards the nearest school.

Too great a sense of identity makes a man feel he can do no wrong. And too little does the same.

The unendurable is the beginning of the curve of joy.

For most people, life is nasty, brutish, and short; for me, it has simply been nasty and brutish.