Man is the only one in whom the instinct of life falters long enough to enable it to ask the question "Why?

What a man knows is everywhere at war with what he wants.

Both the cockroach and the bird would get along very well without us, although the cockroach would miss us most.

Metaphysics may be, after all, only the art of being sure of something that is not so and logic only the art of going wrong with confidence.

There is no such thing as a dangerous woman; there are only susceptible men.

How anyone can profess to find animal life interesting and yet take delight in reducing the wonder of any animal to a bloody mass of fur or feathers?

A tragic writer does not have to believe in God, but he must believe in man.