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.

The great artist, whether he be musician, painter, or poet, is known for this absolute unexpectedness.

The iron did not remember the blood it had once moved within, the phosphorous had forgot the savage brain.

Modern man lives increasingly in the future and neglects the present.

Every man contains within himself a ghost continent.

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.

Every time we walk along a beach some ancient urge disturbs us so that we find ourselves shedding shoes and garments or scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers like the homesick refugees of a long war.