It is the going out from oneself that is love and not the accident of its return. It is the expedition, whether it fail or succeed.

I hope, or I could not live.

Religions are such stuff as dreams are made of.

Life, forever dying to be born afresh, forever young and eager, will presently stand upon this Earth as upon a footstool, and stretch out its realm amidst the stars.

We will peck them to death to-morrow, my dear.

An artist who theorizes about his work is no longer artist but critic.

Lies are the mortar that binds the savage individual man into the social masonry.