Love is a reciprocal torture.

And so it is with our own past. It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) of which we have no inkling. And it depends on chance whether or not we come upon this object before we ourselves must die.

All the great things we know have come to us from neurotics. It is they who have founded religions and created great works of art.

The human plagiarism which is most difficult to avoid, for individuals... is the plagiarism of ourselves.

Everything great in the world comes from neurotics. They alone have founded our religions and composed our masterpieces.

I believe that all true art is classic, but the dictates of the mind rarely permit of its being recognized as such when it first appears.

I had come in time to learn that it was a mistake to smile a friendly smile when somebody made a fool of me.