So we live; a spirit that broods and hovers over the continual death of time, the lost meaning, the unrecaptured moment, the unremembered face, until the final chop that ends all our moments and plunges that spirit back into the void from which it came.

The notion that one can liberate another soul from captivity is an illusion of the very young.

We must live by the light of our own self-satisfaction, through that secret vital busy inwardness which is even more remarkable than our reason.

Art is a kind of artificial memory and the pain which attends all serious art is a sense of that factitiousness.

Freedom may be a value in politics, but it is not a value in morals.

emotions really exist at the bottom of the personality or at the top. in the middle they are acted. this is why all the world is a stage.

Freedom is not choosing; that is merely the move that we make when all is already lost. Freedom is knowing and understanding and respecting things quite other than ourselves.