One does what one is; one becomes what one does.

But how do I get to having to write a book?... It was a mother who bore me, not an inkwell!

Life forms a surface that acts as if it could not be otherwise, but under its skin things are pounding and pulsing.

[...] a number of flawed individuals can often add up to a brilliant social unit.

A man can't be angry at his own time without suffering some damage.

There is, in short, no great idea that stupidity could not put to its own uses [....] The truth by comparison, has only one appearance and only one path, and is always at a disadvantage.

A man who wants the truth becomes a scientist; a man who wants to give free play to his subjectivity may become a writer; but what should a man do who wants something in between?