“To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.”

But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.

The creation of the world did not take place once and for all time, but takes place every day.

There is no escape from yesterday because yesterday has deformed us, or been deformed by us. The mood is of no importance. Deformation has taken place.

What do I know of man’s destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.

You won’t believe what you can accomplish by attempting the impossible with the courage to repeatedly fail better.

We are all born crazy. Some remain that way.

Dear incomprehension, it’s thanks to you I’ll be myself, in the end.

The whisky bears a grudge against the decanter.

The day you die is just like any other, only shorter.

Against the charitable gesture there is no defence.

Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining.

With all this darkness round me I feel less alone.

Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear

People are bloody ignorant apes.

Better hope deferred than none.

All mankind is us, whether we like it or not.

I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire!

When you’re dead, you don’t breathe, you don’t see, you don’t feel, you don’t love.

I like going to areas where the murder rate is high and dropping it.

Death consists, indeed, in a repeated process of unrobing, or unsheathing. The immortal part of man shakes off from itself, one after the other, its outer casings, and – as the snake from its skin, the butterfly from its chrysalis – emerges from one after another, passing into a higher state of consciousness.

Get your priorities straight. No one ever said on his death bed, ‘Gee, if I’d only spent more time at the office.’

As new chapters are born, old chapters die. Everything ceases at some point. I know it’s sad, but life goes on.

Beauty is no dead thing. It is the manifestation of God in nature. There is not one object in nature untouched by man that is not beautiful, for God’s manifestation is beauty. It shines through all His works, and not only in those that may give pleasure to man.

Nationalism of one kind or another was the cause of most of the genocide of the twentieth century.