This is the very worst wickedness, that we refuse to acknowledge the passionate evil that is in us. This makes us secret and rotten.
But better die than live mechanically a life that is a repetition of repetitions.
Psychoanalysis is out, under a therapeutic disguise, to do away entirely with the moral faculty in man.
There's always the hyena of morality at the garden gate, and the real wolf at the end of the street.
People always make war when they say they love peace.
Be a good animal, true to your animal instincts.
The world of men is dreaming, it has gone mad in its sleep, and a snake is strangling it, but it can't wake up.
It is so much more difficult to live with one's body than with one's soul. One's body is so much more exacting: what it won't have it won't have, and nothing can make bitter into sweet.
Ours is an excessively conscious age. We know so much, we feel so little.
All that we know is nothing, we are merely crammed wastepaper baskets, unless we are in touch with that which laughs at all our knowing.
The true artist doesn't substitute immorality for morality. On the contrary, he always substitutes a finer morality for a grosser one.
It is a fine thing to establish one's own religion in one's heart, not to be dependent on tradition and second-hand ideals. Life will seem to you, later, not a lesser, but a greater thing.
One sheds one's sicknesses in books - repeats and presents again one's emotions, to be master of them.
One must learn to love, and go through a good deal of suffering to get to it... and the journey is always towards the other soul.
The refined punishments of the spiritual mode are usually much more indecent and dangerous than a good smack.
I want to live my life so that my nights are not full of regrets.
One can no longer live with people: it is too hideous and nauseating. Owners and owned, they are like the two sides of a ghastly disease.
The profoundest of all sensualities is the sense of truth and the next deepest sensual experience is the sense of justice.
I shall always be a priest of love.
Oh literature, oh the glorious Art, how it preys upon the marrow in our bones. It scoops the stuffing out of us, and chucks us aside. Alas!
I hold that the parentheses are by far the most important parts of a non-business letter.
The only history is a mere question of one's struggle inside oneself. But that is the joy of it. One need neither discover Americas nor conquer nations, and yet one has as great a work as Columbus or Alexander, to do.
Never trust the artist. Trust the tale. The proper function of the critic is to save the tale from the artist who created it.
The novel is the highest form of human expression so far attained. Why? Because it is so incapable of the absolute.
I cannot cure myself of that most woeful of youth's follies - thinking that those who care about us will care for the things that mean much to us.