It occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well.

My latest tendency is to collapse about 11:00 and with the tears flowing from my eyes or the gin rising to their level and leaking over, and tell interested friends or acquaintances that I haven't a friend in the world and likewise care for nobody.

I am not a great man, but sometimes I think the impersonal and objective equality of my talent and the sacrifices of it, in pieces, to preserve its essential value has some sort of epic grandeur.

There was not a moving up into vacated places; there was simply an anachronistic staying on between a vanishing past and an incalculable future.

I'm merely trying to give you the sort of argument that would appeal to your intelligence.

These lights, this brightness, these clusters of human hope, of wild desire—I shall take these lights in my fingers. I shall make them bright, and whether they shine or not, it is in these fingers that they shall succeed or fail.

Better let it all alone in the depths of her heart and the depths of the sea.