The people of England have been led in Mesopotamia into a trap from which it will be hard to escape with dignity and honor.

I could write for hours on the lustfulness of moving Swiftly.

I had dropped one form and not taken on the other, and was become like Mohammed's coffin in our legend, with a resultant feeling of intense loneliness in life, and a contempt, not for other men, but for all they do.

It seems to me that the conquest of the air is the only major task for our generation.

Many men would take the death-sentence without a whimper, to escape the life-sentence which fate carries in her other hand.

Misery, anger, indignation, discomfort-those conditions produce literature. Contentment-never. So there you are.

Isn't it true that the fault of birth rests somewhat on the child? I believe it's we who led our parents on to bear us, and it's our unborn children who make our flesh itch.