One can't live with one's finger everlastingly on one's pulse.

Nowhere else than upon the sea do the days, weeks, and months fall away quicker into the past. They seem to be left astern as easily as the light air-bubbles in the swirls of the ship's wake.

Every age is fed on illusions, lest men should renounce life early and the human race come to an end.

Perhaps life is just that... a dream and a fear.

Writing in English is like throwing mud at a wall.

Action is consolatory. It is the enemy of thought and the friend of flattering illusions.

The vilest scramble for loot that ever disfigured the history of human conscience.