There is a prodigious selfishness in dreams: they live perfectly deaf and invulnerable amid the cries of the real world.

Experience seems to most of us to lead to conclusions, but empiricism has sworn never to draw them.

There is no dunce like a mature dunce.

The human race, in its intellectual life, is organized like the bees: the masculine soul is a worker, sexually atrophied, and essentially dedicated to impersonal and universal arts; the feminine is queen, infinite fertile, omnipresent in its brooding industry, but passive and abounding in intuitions without method and passions without justice.

. . . until the curtain was rung down on the last act of the drama (and it might have no last act!) he wished the intellectual cripples and the moral hunchbacks not to be jeered at; perhaps they might turn out to be the heroes of the play.

The more rational an institution is the less it suffers by making concessions to others.

A dream is always simmering below the conventional surface of speech and reflection.