Once the writer in every individual comes to life (and that time is not far off), we are in for an age of universal deafness and lack of understanding.

A man who loses his privacy loses everything. And a man who gives it up of his own free will is a monster.

Man reckons with immortality, and forgets to reckon with death.

The psychological and physiological mechanism of love is so complex that at a certain period in his life a young man must concentrate all his energy on coming to grips with it, and in this way he misses the actual content of the love: the woman he loves. (In this he is much like a young violinist who cannot concentrate on the emotional content of a piece until the technique required to play it comes automatically.)

How goodness heightens beauty!

The more vast the amount of time we've left behind us, the more irresistible is the voice calling us to return to it.

The girl was grateful to the young man for every bit of flattery; she wanted to linger for a moment in its warmth and so she said, 'You're very good at lying.' 'Do I look like a liar?' 'You look like you enjoy lying to women,' said the girl, and into her words there crept unawares a touch of the old anxiety, because she really did believe that her young man enjoyed lying to women.