The aged are terrible - mere heaps of cinders on the grass from which none can tell how tall the flames once were or what company gathered round them.

The world is round and the place which may seem like the end may also be only the beginning.

Writers on the subject of August Strindberg have hitherto omitted to mention that he could not write. ... Strindberg, who was neither a good nor a wise man, had a stroke of luck. He went mad. He lost the power of inhibition. Everything down to the pettiest suspicion that the dog had been given the leanest mutton chop, poured out of his lips. Men of his weakness and sensuality are usually, from their sheer brutishness, unable to express themselves. But Strindberg was mad and articulate. That is what makes him immortal.

I don't believe that to understand is necessarily to pardon, but I feel that to understand makes one forget that one cannot pardon.

Motherhood is the strangest thing, it can be like being one's own Trojan horse.

every human activity, whether it be love, philosophy, art, or revolution, is carried on with a special intensity in Paris.

All men should have a drop of treason in their veins, if nations are not to go soft like so many sleepy pears.