Sensuality reconciles us with the human race. The misanthropy of the old is due in large part to the fading of the magic glow of desire.

To our real, naked selves there is not a thing on earth or in heaven worth dying for. It is only when we see ourselves as actors in a staged (and therefore unreal) performance that death loses its frightfulness and finality and becomes an act of make-believe and a theatrical gesture. It is one of the main tasks of a real leader to mask the grim reality of dying and killing by evoking in his followers the illusion that they are participating in a grandiose spectacle, a solemn or lighthearted dramatic performance.

Nature is a self-made machine, more perfectly automated than any automated machine. To create something in the image of nature is to create a machine, and it was by learning the inner working of nature that man became a builder of machines.

Even in slight things the experience of the new is rarely without some stirring of foreboding.

The majority prove their worth by keeping busy. A busy life is the nearest thing to a purposeful life.

We probably have a greater love for those we support than for those who support us. Our vanity carries more weight than our self-interest.

The self-despisers are less intent on their own increase than on the diminution of others. Where self-esteem is unobtainable, envy takes the place of greed.