You cannot cross the narrow bridge of art carrying all its tools in your hands. Some you must leave behind.

Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart.

Night had come—night that she loved of all times, night in which the reflections in the dark pool of the mind shine more clearly than by day.

Conversation, fastidious goddess, loves blood better than brick, and feasts most subtly on the human will.

We can best help you to prevent war not by repeating your words and following your methods but by finding new words and creating new methods.

There is no stability in this world. Who is to say what meaning there is in anything? Who is to foretell the flight of a word? It is a balloon that sails over tree-tops. To speak of knowledge is futile. All is experiment and adventure. We are forever mixing ourselves with unknown quantities. What is to come? I know not. But, as I put down my glass I remember; I am engaged to be married. I am to dine with my friends tonight. I am Bernard.

Now the writer, I think, has the chance to live more than other people in the presence of ... reality. It is his business to find it and collect it and communicate it to the rest of us.