Sleeplessness is a desert without vegetation or inhabitants.

A taste for irony has kept more hearts from breaking than a sense of humor, for it takes irony to appreciate the joke which is on oneself.

I seem to be the only person in the world who doesn't mind being pitied. If you love me, pity me. The human state is pitiable: born to die, capable of so much, accomplishing so little; killing instead of creating, destroying instead of building, hating instead of loving. Pitiful, pitiful.

A religious awakening which does not awaken the sleeper to love has roused him in vain.

Writing is so difficult that I feel that writers, having had their hell on earth, will escape all punishment hereafter.

The past is really almost as much a work of the imagination as the future.

Sleeplessness is a desert without vegetation or inhabitants.