A doctor who doesn't say too many foolish things is a patient half-cured.

There are mountainous, arduous days, up which one takes an infinite time to climb, and downward-sloping days which one can descend at full tilt, singing as one goes.

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.

Friendship is in the end no more than: " . . . a lie which seeks to make us believe that we are not irremediably alone."

All our final decisions are made in a state of mind that is not going to last.

If we are to make reality endurable, we must all nourish a fantasy or two.

Love...., ever unsatisfied, lives always in the moment that is about to come.