I have an idea that most of all he is running away from love, because it's too big and too demanding. He's running away from us--from you, from me, from his sister, from himself, too. Who wants to be himself, who wants to be so little, and so captured and limited?

No enemy is so annoying as one who was a friend, or still is a friend,and there are many more of these than one would suspect.

I care so much about everything that I care about nothing.

I know you will remember this — that nothing good ever ends. If it did, there would be no people in the world — no life at all, anywhere. And the world is full of people and full of wonderful life.

I do not know what makes a writer, but it probably isn't happiness.

I am interested in madness. I believe it is the biggest thing in the human race, and the most constant. How do you take away from a man his madness without also taking away his identity? Are we sure it is desirable for a man's spirit not to be at war with itself, or that it is better to be serene and ready to go to dinner than to be excited and unwilling to stop for a cup of coffee, even?

Sometimes the most intelligent thing is not to do anything, certainly nothing loaded with the imbecility of emotionality.