The aim of all life is death.
Why I came here – I know not – where I shall go it is useless to enquire – in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds – stars – systems – infinity – why should I be anxious about an atom?
There are some that only employ words for the purpose of disguising their thoughts.
The ancient commission of the writer has not changed. He is charged with exposing our many grievous faults and failures, with dredging up to the light our dark and dangerous dreams for the purpose of improvement.
My whole work drive has been aimed at making people understand each other and then I deliberately write this book, the aim of which is to cause hatred through partial understanding. My father would have called it a smart-alec book. It was full of tricks to make people ridiculous. If I can’t do better I have slipped badly. And that I won’t admit — yet.
It is not enough to be industrious; so are the ants. What are you industrious about?
Forgetting our purpose is the most frequent form of folly.
When you cease to make a contribution, you begin to die.
We are nothing. Tomorrow we may be die. We are nothing. You and Me.
Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die.
The purpose of our lives is to be happy.
The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life.
