'Life', said Emerson, "consists in what a man is thinking all day." If that be so, then my life is nothing but a big intestine.

Every man has his own destiny: the only imperative is to follow it, to accept it, no matter where it leads him.

To live without killing is a thought which could electrify the world, if men were only capable of staying awake long enough to let the idea soak in.

Every day that we fail to live out the maximum of our potentialities we kill the Shakespeare, Dante, Homer, Christ which is in us.

It is with the soul that we grasp the essence of another human being, not with the mind, nor even with the heart.

New York has a trip-hammer vitality which drives you insane with restlessness if you have no inner stabilizer.

And what is the potential man, after all? Is he not the sum of all that is human? Divine, in other words?