About two-thirds of the face of Marx is beard, a vast solemn wooly uneventful beard that must have made all normal exercise impossible. It is not the sort of beard that happens to a man, it is a beard cultivated, cherished, and thrust patriarchally upon the world.

The crying sounded even louder out of doors. It was as if all the pain in the world had found a voice

But there are times when the little cloud spreads, until it obscures the sky. And those times I look around at my fellow men and I am reminded of some likeness of the beast-people, and I feel as though the animal is surging up in them. And I know they are neither wholly animal nor holy man, but an unstable combination of both.

This has ever been the fate of energy in security; it takes to art and to eroticism, and then comes languor and decay.

The teacher, whether mother, priest, or schoolmaster, is the real maker of history.

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

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.