In here, the human bosom -- mine, yours, everybody's -- there isn't just one soul. There's a lot of souls. But there are two main ones, the real soul and a pretender soul. Now! Every man realizes that he has to love something or somebody. He feels that he must go outward. 'If thou canst not love, what art thou?' Are you with me?

You can spend the entire second half of your life recovering from the mistakes of the first half.

It is a joy to be choked with thought.

Everybody knows there is no fineness or accuracy of suppression; if you hold down one thing, you hold down the adjoining.

It seems, after all that there are no nonpeculiar people.

There are times when the most practical thing is to lie down.

The hour that burst the spirit's sleep.