The writing of words can lead to all sorts of absurdities.

I feel that I am writing out of a full life. I am a rich man, rich in men known, in adventures had. I am rich with living.

In the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were truths and they were all beautiful.

There is within every human being a deep well of thinking over which a heavy iron lid is kept clamped.

The eighteen years he has lived seem but a moment, a breathing space in the long march of humanity. Already he hears death calling. With all his heart he wants to come close to some other human, touch someone with his hands, be touched by the hand of another.

The machines men are so intent on making have carried them very far from the old sweet things.

Interest in the lives of others, the high evaluation of these lives, what are they but the overflow of the interest a man finds in himself, the value he attributes to his own being?.