Any place that we love becomes our world.

The fatal errors of life are not due to man's being unreasonable: an unreasonable moment may be one's finest moment. They are due to man's being logical.

It is exactly because a man cannot do a thing that he is a proper judge of it

Actual life was chaos, but there was something terribly logical in the imagination. It was the imagination that set remorse to dog the feet of sin. It was the imagination that made each crime bear its misshapen brood. In the common world of fact the wicked were not punished, nor the good rewarded. Success was given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak. That was all.

Placerea este testul naturii, semnul ei aprobator.

Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the world.

What we have to do, what at any rate it is our duty to do, is to revive the old art of Lying.