In essence the Renaissance was simply the green end of one of civilization’s hardest winters.

Most marriages recognize this paradox: Passion destroys passion; we want what puts an end to wanting what we want.

There are many reasons why novelists write, but they all have one thing in common – a need to create an alternative world.

There are only two races on this planet – the intelligent and the stupid.

In some mysterious way woods have never seemed to me to be static things. In physical terms, I move through them; yet in metaphysical ones, they seem to move through me.

Content is a word unknown to life; it is also a word unknown to man.

I don’t think the English like me. I sold a colossal best seller in America, and they never really forgave me.

An answer is always a form of death.

We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.

Men love war because it allows them to look serious. Because it is the one thing that stops women laughing at them.

The supposed great misery of our century is the lack of time.

In essence the Renaissance was simply the green end of one of civilization’s hardest winters.

Our accepting what we are must always inhibit our being what we ought to be.

The most important questions in life can never be answered by anyone except oneself.

There comes a time in each life like a point of fulcrum. At that time you must accept yourself. It is not anymore what you will become. It is what you are and always will be.

That is the great distinction between the sexes. Men see objects, women see the relationships between objects.

Duty largely consists of pretending that the trivial is critical.