My conviction gains infinitely the moment another soul will believe in it.

We are willing enough to praise freedom when she is safely tucked away in the past and cannot be a nuisance. In the present, amidst dangers whose outcome we cannot foresee, we get nervous about her, and admit censorship.

I never could get on with representative individuals but people who existed on their own account and with whom it might therefore be possible to be friends.

The king died and then the queen died is a story. The king died, and then queen died of grief is a plot.

Tolerance is just a makeshift, suitable for an overcrowded and overheated planet. It carries on when love gives out, and love generally gives out as soon as we move away from our home and our friends.

It is the vice of a vulgar mind to be thrilled by bigness.

Love felt and returned, love which our bodies exact and our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most real thing that we shall ever meet, reappeared now as the world's enemy, and she must stifle it.