Only two classes of books are of universal appeal. The very best and the very worst.

If you hunch your shoulders too long against a storm your shoulders will grow bowed.

We are all so afraid, we are all so alone, we all so need from the outside the assurance of our own worthiness to exist. So, for a time, if such a passion come to fruition, the man will get what he wants. He will get the moral support, the encouragement, the relief from the sense of loneliness, the assurance of his own worth. But these things pass away; inevitably they pass away as the shadows pass across sundials. It is sad, but it is so. The pages of the book will become familiar; the beautiful corner of the road will have been turned too many times. Well, this is the saddest story.

It was an odd friendship, but the oddnesses of friendships are a frequent guarantee of their lasting texture.

Mind, I am not preaching anything contrary to accepted morality. I am not advocating free love in this or any other case. Society must go on, I suppose, and society can only exist if the normal, if the virtuous, and the slightly deceitful flourish, and if the passionate, the headstrong, and the too-truthful are condemned to suicide and madness.

I know nothing - nothing in the world - of the hearts of men. I only know that I am alone - horribly alone.

Higher than the beasts, lower than the angels, stuck in our idiot Eden.