The disease we all have and that we have to fight against all our lives is ... the disease of self.

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.

I think that those of us who are what are called intellectuals make a terrible mistake in overvaluing the yen we have for the arts, books, etc. There is a sweet, fine quality in life that has nothing to do with this, and more and more I find myself valuing myself with those people.

It may be true of all relationships, not only between fathers and sons, but between men and women. Nothing seems fixed. Everything is always changing. We seem to have very little control over our emotional life.

I think the whole glory of writing lies in the fact that it forces us out of ourselves and into the lives of others.

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

It was a cold day but the sun was out and the trees were like great bonfires against gray distant fields and hills.