We are all like Scheherazade's husband, in that we want to know what happens next.

Spoon feeding in the long run teaches us nothing but the shape of the spoon.

Hope, politeness, the blowing of a nose, the squeak of a boot, all produce "boum.

What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought--Haven't we all to struggle against life's daily greyness, against pettiness, against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place--some beloved place or tree--we thought you one of these.

The work of art assumes the existence of the perfect spectator, and is indifferent to the fact that no such person exists.

I distrust Great Men... I believe in aristocracy, though... Its members are to be found in all nations and classes, and all through the ages, and there is a secret understanding between them when they meet... They are sensitive for others as well as for themselves, they are considerate without being fussy, their pluck is not swankiness but the power to endure, and they can take a joke.

I have no mystic faith in the people. I have in the individual.