The mind is its own enemy, that fights itself with the innumerable pliant and ineluctable arms of the octopus.

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

Unfortunately, all gatherings convened for the betterment of the human lot show a tendency to gas themselves, and not with laughing-gas either.

There are acacias, a graceful species amusingly devitalized by sentimentality, this kind drooping its leaves with the grace of a young widow bowed in controllable grief, this one obscuring them with a smooth silver as of placid tears. They please, like the minor French novelists of the eighteenth century, by suggesting a universe in which nothing cuts deep.

If it be ungentlemanly to kiss and tell, it is still further from gentlemanliness to pray and tell.

Literature must be an analysis of experience and a synthesis of the findings into a unity.

art is at least in part a way of collecting information about the universe.