I am a sick man...I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I think my liver is diseased. Then again, I don't know a thing about my illness; I'm not even sure what hurts.

Faith does not, in the realist, spring from the miracle but the miracle from faith. If the realist once believes, then he is bound by his very realism to admit the miraculous also.

...chance may do anything.

How does it come about that what an intelligent man expresses is much stupider than what remains inside him?

Every man has some reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone, but only to his friends.

Killing myself was a matter of such indifference to me that I felt like waiting for a moment when it would make some difference.

It is amazing what one ray of sunshine can do for a man!