Every dream is a prophecy: every jest is an earnest in the womb of Time.

The man who writes about himself and his own time is the only man who writes about all people and about all time.

She is immensely interested in him. She has even secret mischievous moments in which she wishes she could get him alone, on a desert island, away from all ties and with nobody else in the world to consider, and just drag him off his pedestal and see him making love like any common man.

While we ourselves are the living graves of murdered animals, how can we expect any ideal living conditions on this earth?

Every man deserves to be judged in the context of his times.

I have studied him - the wonderful man - and in my opinion far from being an anti-Christ he must be called the saviour of humanity.

We must not stay as we are, doing always what was done last time, or we shall stick in the mud. Yet neither must we undertake a new world as catastrophic Utopians, and wreck our civilization in our hurry to mend it.