On connecting: Where does one person end and another person begin?

The most interesting things are always happening behind one.

The talk of lovers who have just declared their love is one of life's most sweet delights. Each vies with the other in humility, in amazement at being so valued. The past is searched for the first signs and each one is in haste to declare all that he is so that no part of his being escapes the hallowing touch.

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.

Of course men play roles, but women play roles too, blanker ones. They have, in the play of life, fewer good lines.

Words are the most subtle symbols which we possess and our human fabric depends on them.

In philosophy if you aren't moving at a snail's pace you aren't moving at all.