The individual seeks out the heat of the crowd, in this century, to protect himself against the cold emanating from the corpse of the world.

In an age in which the media broadcast countless pieces of foolishness, the educated man is defined not by what he knows, but by what he doesn't know.

Modern man is a prisoner who thinks he is free because he refrains from touching the walls of his dungeon.

Hierarchies are celestial. In hell all are equal.

Many love humanity only in order to forget God with a clear conscience.

Faith is not knowledge of an object but communion with it.

In the intelligent man faith is the only remedy for anguish.The fool is cured by “reason, ” “progress, ” alcohol, work.

In spiritually arid centuries, the only man to realize that the century is dying from thirst is the man who still harnesses an underground spring.

Modern man is a prisoner who thinks he is free because he refrains from touching thewalls of his dungeon.

Phrases are pebbles that the writer tosses into the reader’s soul.The diameter of the concentric waves they displace depends on the dimensions of the pond.

In unremarkable texts we soon trip on phrases that penetrate into us, as if a sword has thrust up to its hilt inside us.

What are you supposed to do when something like that happens? Do you hold on or let go?

I once heard two ladies going on and on about the pains of childbirth and how men don't seem to know what real pain is. I asked if either of them ever got themselves caught in a zipper.

The only thing that frightens me a little is when I'm called Kevin rather than Fred, but that's how people have known me for so many years. So, I can't really blame them.

Who wanted to creep along in comfort when there was one chance in a thousand of flying?

I happen to be a guy who also plays the piano and sings, so people automatically associate me with Billy Joel.

The snow began to fall again, drifting against the windows, politely begging entrance and then falling with disappointment to the ground.

So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade.

Every moment is a moment of happiness.

Fitz: Shall we get up tomorrow and go looking for a wild pig? Nighteyes: I didn’t lose any wild pigs, did you?

Philosophy insists that there is a joy which is absolute, which never changes.