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.

When a man publishes a book, there are so many stupid things said that he declares he'll never do it again. The praise is almost always worse than the criticism.

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

From being quite sure of himself and his future he becomes not at all sure. If he be an imaginative boy a door is torn open and for the first time he looks out upon the world, seeing, as though they marched in procession before him, the countless figures of men who before his time have come out of nothingness into the world, lived their lives and again disappeared into nothingness. The sadness of sophistication has come to the boy.

In youth there are always two forces fighting in people. The warm unthinking little animal struggles against the thing that reflects and remembers

Only the few know the sweetness of the twisted apples.

Work accomplished means little. It is in the past. What we all want is the glorious and living present.