Here lies the real terror in the international war of ideologies; that a city knows not whom it entertains.

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.

Hatred of domestic work is a natural and admirable result of civilization.

Before a war military science seems a real science, like astronomy; but after a war it seems more like astrology.

Submission to poverty is the unpardonable sin against the body. Submission to unhappiness is the unpardonable sin against the spirit.

The redemptive power of divine grace no longer seemed credible, nor very respectable in the arbitrary performance that was claimed for it.

If I do not do sensible things about investments I shall spend my old age in a workhouse, where nobody will understand my jokes.