Serious reflexion about one's own character will often induce a curious sense of emptiness; and if one knows another person well, one may sometimes intuit a similar void in him. (This is one of the strange privileges of friendship.)

The only satisfied rationalists today are blinkered scientists or Marxists.

A bad review is even less important than whether it is raining in Patagonia.

The notion that one will not survive a particular catastrophe is, in general terms, a comfort since it is equivalent to abolishing the catastrophe.

Perhaps when distant people on other planets pick up some wave-length of ours all they hear is a continuous scream.

I daresay anything can be made holy by being sincerely worshipped.

But fantasy kills imagination, pornography is death to art.

The cry of equality pulls everyone down.

Perhaps misguided moral passion is better than confused indifference.

Art is the final cunning of the human soul which would rather do anything than face the gods.