It is frequently the tragedy of the great artist, as it is of the great scientist, that he frightens the ordinary man.

In the days of the frost seek an minor sun.

I am older now, and sleep less, and have seen most of what there is to see and am not very much impressed any more, I suppose, by anything.

Man is dragged hither and thither, at one moment by the blind instincts of the forest, at the next by the strange intuitions of a higher self whose rationale he doubts and does not understand.

You think that way as you begin to get grayer and you see pretty plainly that the game is not going to end as you planned.

It has been said repeatedly that one can never, try as he will, get around to the front of the universe. Man is destined to see only its far side, to realize nature only in retreat.

Like the herd animals we are, we sniff warily at the strange one among us.