But when I was twelve years old I caught my first strong glimpse of one of the fundamental forces of existence, whose votary I was destined to be for life - namely, Beauty.

My father, though, could run very much faster. It was impossible to compete with him on the grass. But it was astonishing how slow old people were. Some of them could not run up a hill and called it trying to climb stairs.

On the whole, the world was friendly. It chiefly depended on whether one were good or not.

The stream of time sweeps away errors, and leaves the truth for the inheritance of humanity.

Any feeling that I was enriching my mind from those surrounding me was unfortunately rare with me.

The war imbued my tin soldiers with quite a new interest. It was impossible to have boxes enough of them.

Dostoevsky preaches the morality of the pariah, the morality of the slave.