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

She was nervous about the future; it made her indelicate. She was one of the most unimportantly wicked women of her time --because she could not let her time alone, and yet could never be a part of it. She wanted to be the reason for everything and so was the cause of nothing. She had the fluency of tongue and action meted out by divine providence to those who cannot think for themselves. She was the master of the over-sweet phrase, the over-tight embrace.

When one wants to become cognizant of the color and the texture of the soil, one does not get a ladder; one gets a shovel. When one wants to get into touch with the texture of the universal mind, one does not go to Boston; one goes to the Bowery.

Even the contemplative life is only an effort, Nora my dear, to hide the body so the feet won’t stick out.

This head has risen above its hair in a moment of abandon known only to men who have drawn their feet out of their boots to walk awhile in the corridors of the mind.

One must not look inward too much, while the inside is yet tender. I do not wish to frighten myself until I can stand it.

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