I would, if I could, always feed to music. The singularly graceless action of thus filling one's body with roots and dead animals and powdered grain is given some significance then. One can perform as a ritual what one is shamed to do as a utilitarian action.

the ruder lecturers are, and the louder their voices, the more converts they make to their opinions.

we are so little, so ignorant, so feeble an infant race crawling on a planet between immensities we haven't even begun to understand, that really we have no grounds for either congratulation or despair.

Why, why, when one writes, does a sort of shackle bind one's imagination? I become conscious of a deadening mediocrity, perhaps a form of mental cowardice, and I long to break free, to let my imagination take wings. It doesn't - yet.

Oh, time betrays us. Time is the great enemy.

If we haven't a grouch against Fortune, we seem unable to avoid one against ourselves.

Is this the final treachery of time, that the old become a burden upon the young?