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I read the book of Job last night, I don’t think God comes out well in it.
To enjoy freedom we have to control ourselves.
Masterpieces are not single and solitary births they are the outcome of many years of thinking in common, of thinking by the body of the people, so that the experience of the mass is behind the single voice.
Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.
This soul, or life within us, by no means agrees with the life outside us. If one has the courage to ask her what she thinks, she is always saying the very opposite to what other people say.
The beautiful seems right by force of beauty, and the feeble wrong because of weakness.
The beauty of the world, which is so soon to perish, has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.
When the shriveled skin of the ordinary is stuffed out with meaning, it satisfies the senses amazingly.
For what Harley Street specialist has time to understand the body, let alone the mind or both in combination, when he is a slave to thirteen thousand a year?
Rigid, the skeleton of habit alone upholds the human frame.