Our unconscious, then, does not believe in its own death; it behaves as if it were immortal. It knows nothing that is negative; in it contradictories coincide. This may be the secret of heroism.

Perhaps the gods are kind to us, by making life more disagreeable as we grow older. In the end death seems less intolerable than the manifold burdens we carry

Love is a state of temporary psychosis.

We are what we are because we have been what we have been.

Maturity is the ability to postpone gratification.

Smoking is indispensable if one has nothing to kiss.

The world is no nursery.