Our lives are merely strange dark interludes in the electric display of God the Father.

This is Daddy's little secret for today; man is born broken. He lives by mending. The grace of God is glue.

None of us can help the things life has done to us. They're done before you realize it, and once they're done they make you do other things until at last everything comes between you and what you'd like to be, and you've lost your true self forever.

Contentment is a warm sty for the eaters and sleepers.

The lie of a pipe dream is what gives life to the whole misbegotten mad lot of us, drunk or sober.

Man's loneliness is but his fear of life.

What beastly incidents our memories insist on cherishing-the ugly and disgusting-the beautiful things we have to keep diaries to remember.

Age's terms of peace, after the long interlude of war with life, have still to be concluded-Youth must keep decently away-so many old wounds may have to be unbound, and old scars pointed to with pride, to prove to ourselves we have been brave and noble.

The old-like children-talk to themselves, for they have reached that hopeless wisdom of experience which knows that though one were to cry it in the streets to multitudes, or whisper it in the kiss to one's beloved, the only ears that can ever hear ones secret are one's own!

Life is for each man a solitary cell whose walls are mirrors.