“All great and precious things are lonely.”

It’s a hard thing to leave any deeply routine life, even if you hate it.

The free exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world.

I was born lost and take no pleasure in being found.

This I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual.

In poverty she is envious. In riches she may be a snob. Money does not change the sickness, only the symptoms.

Power does not corrupt. Fear corrupts, perhaps the fear of a loss of power.

Out of all this struggle a good thing is going to grow. That makes it worthwhile.

I know now why confusion in government is not only tolerated but encouraged. I have learned. Confused people can make no clear demands.

There’s a responsibility in being a person. It’s more than just taking up space where air would be.

And finally, in our time a beard is the one thing that a woman cannot do better than a man, or if she can her success is assured only in a circus.

A sad soul can kill quicker than a germ.

American married life is the doormat to the whorehouse.

People like you to be something, preferably what they are.

If a story is not about the hearer, he will not listen. And here I make a rule—a great and interesting story is about everyone or it will not last.

No one wants advice – only corroboration.

You’re bound to get ideas if you go thinkin’ about stuff.

There is no pain so great as the memory of joy in present grief.

We are always slow in admitting any great change of which we do not see the intermediate steps

The greatest pleasure of life is love.

If you make it, great. If you miss it – what’s there to be afraid of?

Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together.

Great dreams of great dreamers are always transcended.

To fall in love with God is the greatest romance; to seek him the greatest adventure; to find him, the greatest human achievement.

The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved – loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves.