Old age is as forgetful as youth, and more incorrigible; it displays the same inattentiveness to conditions; its memory becomes self-repeating and degenerates into an instinctive reaction, like a bird's chirp.

There is no cure for birth and death save to enjoy the interval.

Culture is on the horns of this dilemma: if profound and noble it must remain rare, if common it must become mean.

One real world is enough.

Habit is stronger than reason.

For Shakespeare, in the matter of religion, the choice lay between Christianity and nothing. He chose nothing.

The dreamer can know no truth, not even about his dream, except by awaking out of it.