No, it is impossible; it is impossible to convey the life-sensation of any given epoch of one’s existence--that which makes its truth, its meaning--its subtle and penetrating essence. It is impossible. We live, as we dream--alone.

The sea has never been friendly to man. At most it has been the accomplice of human restlessness.

It’s extraordinary how we go through life with eyes half shut, with dull ears, with dormant thoughts. Perhaps it’s just as well; and it may be that it is this very dullness that makes life to the incalculable majority so supportable and so welcome.

Words, as is well known, are the great foes of reality.

There is a taint of death, a flavour of mortality in lies.

Sleep after toyle, port after stormie seas, Ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please.

The revolutionary spirit is mighty convenient in this, that it frees one from all scruples as regards ideas.