Existence in itself, taken at its least miraculous, is a miracle.

Because hypocrisy stinks in the nostrils one is likely to rate it as a more powerful agent for destruction than it is.

The memory, experiencing and re-experiencing, has such power over one's mere personal life, that one has merely lived.

There was too much hatred in the world; it was manifestly as dangerous as gunpowder, yet people let it lie about, in the way of ignition.

Now different races and nationalities cherish different ideals of society that stink in each other's nostrils with an offensiveness beyond the power of any but the most monstrous private deed.

Life ought to be a struggle of desire toward adventures whose nobility will fertilize the soul.

Why must you always try to be omnipotent, and shove things about? Tragic things happen sometimes that we just have to submit to.