A harmful truth is better than a useful lie.

For the myth is the foundation of life; it is the timeless schema, the pious formula into which life flows when it reproduces its traits out of the unconscious.

(T)here was a story they used to tell at home about a girl whose punishment was that every time she opened her mouth, snakes and toads came out, snakes and toads with every word. The book didn't say what she did about it, but I've always assumed she probably ended up keeping her mouth shut.

Isn't it grand, isn't it good, that language has only one word for everything we associate with love - from utter sanctity to the most fleshly lust? The result is perfect clarity in ambiguity, for love cannot be disembodied even in its most sanctified forms, nor is it without sanctity even at its most fleshly. Love is always simply itself, both as a subtle affirmation of life and as the highest passion; love is our sympathy with organic life.

In books we never find anything but ourselves. Strangely enough, that always gives us great pleasure, and we say the author is a genius.

We don't love qualities, we love persons; sometimes by reason of their defects as well as of their qualities.

Time cools, time clarifies; no mood can be maintained quite unaltered through the course of hours.