“We are bound together by the sympathy of our antipathies.”

Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.

I wanted real adventures to happen to myself. But real adventures, I reflected, do not happen to people who remain at home: they must be sought abroad.

O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What mind of man can understand it?

Your battles inspired me – not the obvious material battles but those that were fought and won behind your forehead.

I am proud to be an emotionalist.

His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible.

Beware the horns of a bull, the heels of the horse, and the smile of an Englishman.

My puns are not trivial. They are quadrivial.

God made food; the devil the cooks.

Moments of their secret life together burst like stars upon his memory.

A man’s errors are his portals of discovery.

There is no heresy or no philosophy which is so abhorrent to the church as a human being.

All Moanday, Tearday, Wailsday, Thumpsday, Frightday, Shatterday.

I’ve put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that’s the only way of insuring one’s immortality.

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring.

The world does not understand theology or dogma, but it understands love and sympathy.

Three-fourths of the people you will ever meet are hungering and thirsting for sympathy. Give it to them, and they will love you.

To be without sympathy is to be alone in the world–without friends or country, home or kindred.

I sympathize afresh with the mighty Voltaire who, when badgered on his deathbed and urged to renounce the devil, murmured that this was no time to be making enemies.

Women most certainly carry a more sympathetic heart in the traditional, classic sense the mother archetype. They have been given the role to carry the heart energy of the human community, whereas men carry the survival energy.

A writer without interest or sympathy for the foibles of his fellow man is not conceivable as a writer.

There is only one thing I hope to see before I die, and that is that my people should not need expressions of sympathy anymore.

Everywhere the need exists for maternal sympathy and help.