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.

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

The writer, an old man with a white moustache, had some difficulty getting into bed.

Realism, in so far as the word means reality to life, is always bad art.

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

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?.

...she thought that something unexpressed in herself came forth and became a part of an unexpressed something in them.