A human soul devoid of longing was a soul deformed, deprived of its highest good, sick unto death.

The physical body is an agent of the spirit and its mirror. It is an engine and a reflection of the spirit. It is the spirit's ingenious memorandum to itself and the spirit sees itself in my body, just as I see my own face in a looking glass. My nerves reflect this. The earth is literally a mirror of thoughts. Objects themselves are embodied thoughts. Death is the dark backing that a mirror needs if we are to see anything.

I've never turned over a fig leaf yet that didn't have a price tag on the other side.

One way or another the no doubt mad idea entered my mind that my own actions had historic importance and this fantasy (?) made it appear that people who harmed me were interfering with an important experiment.

An exchange occurs between man and woman. Love and thought complete each other in the human pair, and something like an exchange of souls takes place, according to the divine plan.

All a writer has to do to get a woman is to say he's a writer. It's an aphrodisiac.

No realistic, sane person goes around Chicago without protection.