Hell is other people at breakfast.

With a little luck that epoch may arrive. I am on the side of those who think that things will go better when the world has changed.

Originally, poetry creates the myth, while the prose-writer draws its portrait.

There it is: I am gently slipping into the water's depths, towards fear.

He was free, free in every way, free to behave like a fool or a machine, free to accept, free to refuse, free to equivocate; to marry, to give up the game, to drag this death weight about with him for years to come. He could do what he liked, no one had the right to advise him, there would be for him no Good or Evil unless he thought them into being.

Besides one should not believe that the people only want reading that is easy to absorb.

When the rich [and politically powerful] make war, it's the poor [and politically weak] who die.