No man really knows about other human beings. The best he can do is to suppose that they are like himself.
My dreams are the problems of the day stepped up to absurdity, a little like men dancing, wearing the horns and masks of animals.
It is odd how a man believes he can think better in a special place. I have such a place, have always had it, but I know it isn’t thinking I do there, but feeling and experiencing and remembering.It’s a safety place — everyone must have one, although I never heard a man tell of it.
A man who tells secrets or stories must think of who is hearing or reading, for a story has as many versions as it has readers.