Liking one person is an extra reason for liking another.

Our final experience, like our first, is conjectural. We move between two darkness's.

The crime of suicide lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave behind.

. . . life is sometimes life and sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish t'other from which . . .

The historian records, but the novelist creates.

Excuse my mistakes, realize my limitations. Life is not easy as we know it on the earth.

Neanderthal man listened to stories, if one may judge by the shape of his skull. The primitive audience was an audience of shock-heads, gaping around the camp-fire, fatigued with contending against the mammoth or wooly-rhinoceros, and only kept awake by suspense. What would happen next? The novelist droned on, and as soon as the audience guessed what happened next, they either fell asleep or killed him.