It might be possible that the world itself is without meaning.

It's my choice, to choose how to live my life.

It was the intimacy, a sort of spiritual suppleness, when mind prints upon mind indelibly.

Behind the cotton wool is hidden a pattern; that we—I mean all human beings—are connected with this; that the whole world is a work of art; that we are parts of the work of art. Hamlet or a Beethoven quartet is the truth about this vast mass that we call the world. But there is no Shakespeare, there is no Beethoven; certainly and emphatically there is no God; we are the words; we are the music; we are the thing itself.

What greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave the straight lines of personality and deviate into these footpaths that lead beneath brambles and thick tree trunks into the heart of the forest where live those wild beasts, our fellow men? That is true: to escape is the greatest of pleasures; street haunting in winter the greatest of adventures.

The connection between dress and war is not far to seek; your finest clothes are those you wear as soldiers.

The telephone, which interrupts the most serious conversations and cuts short the most weighty observations, has a romance of its own.