The last clear definite function of men—muscles aching to work, minds aching to create beyond the single need—this is man.

Time is more complex near the sea than in any other place, for in addition to the circling of the sun and the turning of the seasons, the waves beat out the passage of time on the rocks and the tides rise and fall as a great clepsydra.

This monster of a land, this mightiest of nations, this spawn of the future, turns out to be the macrocosm of microcosm me.

Strength and success - they are above morality, above criticism. It seems, then, that it is not what you do, but how you do it and what you call it. Is there a check in men, deep in them, that stops or punishes? There doesn't seem to be. The only punishment is for failure. In effect no crime is committed unless a criminal is caught.

To be alive at all is to have scars.

People are felt rather than seen after the first few moments.

Critics are the eunuchs of literature. They stand by in envious awe while the whole man and his partner demonstrate the art of living.