A man needs a purpose for real health.

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.

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

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.

Wait and wait. Most people's lives are spent waiting.