A man isn't tiny or giant enough to defeat anything.

Glory, as anyone knows, is bitter stuff.

Living is merely the chaos of existence.

For clearly it is impossible to touch eternity with one hand and life with the other.

Is there not a sort of remorse that precedes sin? Was it remorse at the very fact that I existed?

For an artist to do creative work, he needs at once physical health and some physiomental ill health. He needs both serenity and gloom.

Suddenly the full long wail of a ship's horn surged through the open window and flooded the dim room—a cry of boundless, dark, demanding grief; pitch-black and glabrous as a whale's back and burdened with all the passions of the tides, the memory of voyages beyond counting, the joys, the humiliations: the sea was screaming.