No, I don’t like work. I had rather laze about and think of all the fine things that can be done. I don’t like work – no man does – but I like what is in the work, - the chance to find yourself. Your...
It's queer how out of touch with truth women are. They live in a world of their own, and there had never been anything like it, and never can be. It is too beautiful altogether, and if they were to se...
I slipped the book into my pocket. I assure you to leave off reading was like tearing myself away from the shelter of an old and solid friendship.
I don't like work—no man does—but I like what is in the work,—the chance to find yourself. Your own reality—for yourself, not for others—what no other man can ever know.
I don't like work--no man does--but I like what is in the work--the chance to find yourself. Your own reality--for yourself not for others--what no other man can ever know. They can only see the mere...
I can't afford to despise anything. An absurdity may be the starting-point of the most dangerous complications.
I believe in children praying--well, women, too, but I rather think God expects men to be more self-reliant. I don't hold with a man everlastingly bothering the Almighty with his silly troubles.
His very existence was improbable, inexplicable, and altogether bewildering. He was an insoluble problem. It was inconceivable how he had existed, how he had succeeded in getting so far, how he had ma...
He struggled with himself, too. I saw it -- I heard it. I saw the inconceivable mystery of a soul that knew no restraint, no faith, and no fear, yet struggling blindly with itself.
. . but in the great demoralization of the land he kept up his appearance. That's backbone.
this grimy fragment of another world, the forerunner of change, of conquest, of trade, of massacres, of blessings....the merry dance of death and trade goes on
As in political so in literary action a man wins friends for himself mostly by the passion of his prejudices.
A man's real life is that accorded to him in the thoughts of other men by reason of respect or natural love.
I take it that what all men are really after is some form or perhaps only some formula of peace.
[The wilderness] had caressed him, and—lo!—he had withered; it had taken him, loved him, embraced him, got into his veins, consumed his flesh, and sealed his soul to its own by the inconceivable cerem...
[Perverse] unreason has its own logical processes
Your strength is just an accident arising from the weakness of others.
We live as we dream - alone. While the dream disappears, the life continues painfully.
We can never cease to be ourselves.
Vanity plays lurid tricks with our memory, and the truth of every passion wants some pretence to make it live.