The thing of course, is to make yourself alive. Most people remain all of their lives in a stupor.

It may be life is only worthwhile at moments. Perhaps that is all we ought to expect.

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

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

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

What's wrong with this egotism? If a man doesn't delight in himself and the force in him and feel that he and it are wonders, how is all life to become important to him?

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.