The artist in his calling of interpreter creates because he must. He is so much of a voice that, for him, silence is like death

They trespassed upon my thoughts. They were intruders whose knowledge of life was to me an irritating pretense, because I felt so sure they could not possibly know the things I knew. Their bearing, which was simply the bearing of commonplace individuals going about their business in the assurance of perfect safety, was offensive to me like the outrageous flauntings of folly in the face of a danger it is unable to comprehend. I had no particular desire to enlighten them, but I had some difficulty in restraining myself from laughing in their faces, so full of stupid importance.

It is to be remarked that a good many people are born curiously unfitted for the fate waiting them on this earth.

It is respectable to have no illusions, and safe, and profitable and dull.

It is the mark of an inexperienced man not to believe in luck.

It is when we try to grapple with another man's intimate need that we perceive how incomprehensible, wavering and misty are the beings that share with us the sight of the stars and the warmth of the sun. It is as if loneliness were a hard and absolute condition of existence; the envelope of flesh and blood on which our eyes are fixed melts before the outstretched hand, and there remains only the capricious, unconsolable and elusive spirit that no eye can follow, no hand can grasp.

A certain simplicity of thought is common to serene souls at both ends of the social scale.