The adventure is over. Everything gets over, and nothing is ever enough. Except the part you carry with you.

There are two kinds of imperialists - imperialists and bloody imperialists.

There is in every one of us an unending see-saw between the will to live and the will to die.

Fiction and poetry are the only way one can stop time and give an account of an experience and nail it down so that it lasts for ever.

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.

The childhood of the individual and the race is full of fears, and panic-stricken attempts to avert what is feared by placating the gods with painful sacrifices.

It appears that even the different parts of the same person do not converse among themselves, do not succeed in learning from each other what are their desires and their intentions.