He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time.

A human life the treasure of the world cannot buy; nor can it redeem one which is misspent; nor can it make full and complete and beautiful a life which is dwarfed and warped and ugly.

Cruelty, as a fine art, has attained its perfect flower in the trained-animal world.

Socialism, when the last word is said, is merely a new economic and political system whereby more men can get food to eat.

...in his gambling, he had one besetting weakness -- faith in a system; and this made his damnation certain.

The hand descended. Nearer and nearer it came. It touched the ends of his upstanding hair. He shrank down under it. It followed down after him, pressing more closely against him. Shrinking, almost shivering. He still managed to hold himself together. It was a torment, this hand that touched him and violated his instinct. He could not forget in a day all the evil that had been wrought him at the hands of men.

Don't loaf and invite inspiration; light out after it with a club, and if you don't get it you will nonetheless get something that looks remarkably like it.