The most steady, the most self-sufficient nature depends, more than it knows, on its few chosen stimuli.

Fantasy is toxic: the private cruelty and the world war both have their start in the heated brain.

Not only is there no question of solitude, but in the long run we may not choose our company.

First love, with its frantic haughty imagination, swings its object clear of the everyday, over the rut of living, making him all looks, silences, gestures, attitudes, a burning phrase with no context.

No, it is not only our fate but our business to lose innocence, and once we have lost that, it is futile to attempt a picnic in Eden.

somehow at parties at which one stays standing up one seems to require to be more concentratedly intelligent than one does at those at which one can sit down.

life is a succession of readjustments.