There is something about the present which we would not exchange, though we were offered a choice of all past ages to live in.

When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.

Lord, how tired one gets of one's own writing.

Let us simmer over our incalculable cauldron, our enthralling confusion, our hotchpotch of impulses, our perpetual miracle - for the soul throws up wonders every second. Movement and change are the essence of our being; rigidity is death; conformity is death; let us say what comes into our heads, repeat ourselves, contradict ourselves, fling out the wildest nonsense, and follow the most fantastic fancies without caring what the world does or thinks or says. For nothing matters except life.

There was no freedom in life, and certainly there was none in death.

A light here required a shadow there.

Humor is the first of the gifts to perish in a foreign tongue.