My mistake was in ever opening the books.

This expression of abandon and surrender, of absolute trust, he reserved for the master alone.

I am a hopeless materialist. I see the soul as nothing else than the sim of activities of the organism plus personal habits - plus inherited habits, memories, experiences, of the organism. I believe that when I am dead, I am dead. I believe that with my death I am just as much obliterated as the last mosquito you and I squashed.

Love is the sum of all the arts, as it is the reason for their existence.

Fear urged him to go back, but growth drove him on.

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

On the sled, in the box, lay a third man whose toil was over, - a man whom the Wild had conquered and beaten down until he would never move nor struggle again. It is not the way of the Wild to like movement. Life is an offense to it, for life is movement; and the Wild aims always to destroy movement.