And then he sank back and tried, as usual, not to think. He must succeed. That's what the world was made for. That's what he was made for. That was what he would have to do.

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

The mystery of life--its inexplicability, beauty, cruelty, tenderness, folly . . . has occupied the greater part of my waking thoughts; and in reverence or rage or irony, as the moment or situation might dictate, I have pondered and even demanded of cosmic energy to know Why.

The most futile thing in this world is any attempt, perhaps, at exact definition of character. All individuals are a bundle of contradictions - none more so than the most capable.

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

If I were personally to define religion, I would say that it is a bandage that man has invented to protect a soul made bloody by circustance.

You walk into a room, see a woman, and something happens. It's chemical. What are you going to do about it?