Almost any tale of our doings is comic. We are bottomlessly comic to each other. Even the most adored and beloved person is comic to his lover. The novel is a comic form. Language is a comic form, and makes jokes in its sleep. God, if He existed, would laugh at His creation. Yet it is also the case that life is horrible, without metaphysical sense, wrecked by chance, pain and the close prospect of death. Out of this is born irony, our dangerous and necessary tool.

Only love has clear vision. Hatred has cloudy vision. When we hate we know not what we do.

Language is a machine for making falsehoods.

Actors are cave dwellers in a rich darkness which they love and hate.

There is a gulf fixed between those who can sleep and those who cannot. It is one of the greatest divisions of the human race.

Probably no adult misery can be compared with a child's despair.

Love is the source of our greatest errors; but when it is even partially refined it is the energy and the passion of the soul in its search for Good, the force that joins us to Good and joins us to the world through Good. Its existence is the unmistakable sign that we are spiritual creatures, attracted by excellence and made for the Good. It is a reflection of the warmth and light of the sun.