Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries.

You can find the entire cosmos lurking in its least remarkable objects.

All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.

Most of the earth's inhabitants work to get by. They work because they have to. They didn't pick this or that kind of job out of passion; the circumstances of their lives did the choosing for them. Loveless work, boring work, work valued only because others haven't got even that much, however loveless and boring - this is one of the harshest human miseries. And there's no sign that coming centuries will produce any changes for the better as far as this goes.

There's simply too much fuss about myself.

Though I may deny poets their monopoly on inspiration, I still place them in a select group of Fortune's darlings.

Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.