The monstrous thing is not that men have created roses out of this dung heap, but that, for some reason or other, they should want roses.

When you know what men are capable of you marvel neither at their sublimity nor their baseness. There are no limits in either direction apparently.

Your nearness is the nearness of planets. I am the void between you. If I withdraw there will be no void for you to swim in.

We must get going. Tomorrow, tomorrow.

Fame is an illusive thing - here today, gone tomorrow. The fickle, shallow mob raises its heroes to the pinnacle of approval today and hurls them into oblivion tomorrow at the slightest whim; cheers today, hisses tomorrow; utter forgetfulness in a few months.

What is not in the open street is false, derived, that is to say, literature.

From the little reading I had done I had observed that the men who were most in life, who were molding life, who were life itself, ate little, slept little, owned little or nothing. They had no illusions about duty, or the perpetuation of their kith and kin, or the preservation of the State. They were interested in truth and in truth alone. They recognized only one kind of activity - creation.