I cannot remember my past, my nose, or the colour of my eyes, or what my general opinion of myself is. Only in moments of emergency, at a crossing, at a kerb, the wish to preserve my body springs out and seizes me and stops me , here, before this omnibus. We insist, it seems, on living. Then again, indifference descends.

Communication is truth; communication is happiness. To share is our duty; to go down boldly and bring to light those hidden thoughts which are the most diseased; to conceal nothing; to pretend nothing; if we are ignorant to say so; if we love our friends to let them know it.

There is no room for the impurities of literature in an essay.

The very stone one kicks with one's boot will outlast Shakespeare.

Sleep, that deplorable curtailment of the joy of life.

Lies will flow from my lips, but there may perhaps be some truth mixed up with them.

But I pine in Solitude. Solitude is my undoing.