Most people die of a sort of creeping common sense, and discover when it is too late that the only things one never regrets are one's mistakes.

What men call the shadow of the body is not the shadow of the body, but is the body of the soul.

We are the zanies of sorrow. We are clowns whose hearts are broken.

The true critic is he who bears within himself the dreams and ideas and feelings of myriad generations, and to whom no form of thought is alien, no emotional impulse obscure.

The final mystery is oneself.

My desire to live is as intense as ever, and though my heart is broken, hearts are made to be broken: that is why God sends sorrow into the world.

Oh, no doubt the cod is a splendid swimmer - admirable for swimming purposes but not for eating.