I teach at Harvard that the world and the heavens, and the stars are all real, but not so damned real, you see.

Memory and hope constantly incite us to the extensions of the self which play so large a part in our daily life.

For myself, I do not now know in any concrete human terms wherein my individuality consists. In my present human form of consciousness I simply cannot tell.

Thinking is like loving and dying. Each of us must do it for himself.

Interfere with the reality of my world, and you therefore take the very life and heart out of my will.

I teach at Harvard that the world and the heavens, and the stars are all real, but not so damned real, you see.

The lonely wanderer, who watches by the seashore the waves that roll between him and his home, talks of cruel facts, material barriers that, just because they are material, and not ideal, shall be the irresistible foes of his longing heart.