Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on wings of misery and travail.

Morality and ethics are nothing but footballs, wherewith people, strong people play to win points.

Life is made for the strong. There is no mercy in it for the weak– none...Such is the tragedy of desire.

Love is the only thing you can really give in all this world. When you give love, you give everything.

Assure a man that he has a soul and then frighten him with old wives' tales as to what is to become of him afterward, and you have hooked a fish, a mental slave.

We who feel that justice is not being done have but one thing to do: that is fight, by argument, by example, by insistence on fair play wherever we have the power to do so. The rest is in the hands of the Lord, or nature, which swings, apparently, from one extreme to another.

I have seen youths bright eyed and fair groping after bubbles in rapture, and conceiving them diamonds and the glitter of fine jewels, until their hand closed over a something that was not to be felt nor longer seen, mere colored air.