I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious is an illness - a real thorough-going illness.

A cultivated and decent man cannot be vain without setting a fearfully high standard for himself, and without despising and almost hating himself at certain moments.

The whole work of man really seems to consist in nothing but proving to himself every minute that he is a man and not a piano key.

But man is a fickle and disreputable creature and perhaps, like a chess-player, is interested in the process of attaining his goal rather than the goal itself.

I am alone, I thought, and they are everybody.

It is a law of nature that every decent man on earth is bound to be a coward and a slave

I will put up with any mockery rather than pretend that I am satisfied when I am hungry.

For though your mind is active enough, your heart is darkened with corruption, and without a pure heart there can be no full or genuine sensibility.

Man is fond of reckoning up his troubles, but does not count his joys.

What does reason know? Reason only knows what it has succeeded in learning...

Man only likes counting his grief, he doesn't count his happiness. But if he were to count properly, he'd see that there's enough of both lots for him.

The beauty of a strong, lasting commitment is often best understood by men incapable of it.

To seek a justification for a decision already made.

If I am to be shot at, I want no man to be in the way of the bullet.

I don't really write for an album. I just write songs whenever I feel like it, whenever they come to me. It's all a complete accident.

In the case of the Japanese, they usually commit suicide before they make any apology.

I never saw myself as Mr. Ugly, but I'm not that handsome. I can sort of be made to look quite a lot better or quite a lot worse.

Successful workers will be those who embrace a lifetime of learning. Those who don't will be left behind.

Yes, I was beaten on every part of my body, and the marks are still on my body.

I want to know the truth, however perverted that may sound.

Beautiful women, whose beauty meant more than it said... was their brilliancy always fed by something coarse and concealed? Was that their secret?