But his soul was mad. Being alone in the wilderness, it had looked within itself and, by heavens I tell you, it had gone mad.

How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a specter through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat?

Everything can be found at sea according to the spirit of your quest.

I am a great foe of favoritism in public life, in private life, and even in the delicate relationship of an author to his works.

A historian may be an artist too, and a novelist is a historian, the preserver, the keeper, the expounder, of human experience.

Happiness, happiness ... the flavor is with you-with you alone, and you can make it as intoxicating as you please.

It's only those who do nothing that make no mistakes, I suppose.