The folly of mistaking a paradox for a discovery, a metaphor for a proof, a torrent of verbiage for a spring of capital truths, and oneself for an oracle, is inborn in us.

If what has happened in the one person were communicated directly to the other, all art would collapse, all the effects of art would disappear.

Latent in every man is a venom of amazing bitterness, a black resentment; something that curses and loathes life, a feeling of being trapped, of having trusted and been fooled, of being helpless prey to impotent rage, blind surrender, the victim of a savage, ruthless power that gives and takes away, enlists a man, drops him, promises and betrays, and -crowning injury- inflicts on him the humiliation of feeling sorry for himself.

The universe is built on a plan the profound symmetry of which is somehow present in the inner structure of our intellect.

Oh, hasten not this loving act, Rapture where self and not-self meet: My life has been the awaiting you, Your footfall was my own heart's beat.

The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be.

Talent without genius isn't much, but genius without talent is nothing whatsoever.