One shouldn't be afraid of the humans. Well, I am not afraid of the humans, but of what is inhuman in them.

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Man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, and emerges ahead of his accomplishments.

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A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.

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Is it a war we are fighting, a war against health, against life and love? My condition is a torn condition. Every day, the dispensing of existence. I see the face of suffering. Its face is fierce and distant and ancient. There's probably a straightforward explanation for the impossible weariness I feel. A perfectly straightforward explanation. It is a mortal weariness. Maybe I'm tired of being human, if human is what I am. I'm tired of being human.

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Because we are all poets or babies in the middle of the night, struggling with being.

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People? People are chaotic quiddities living in one cave each. They pass the hours in amorous grudge and playback and thought experiment. At the campfire they put the usual fraction on exhibit, and listen to their own silent gibber about how they're feeling and how they're going down. We've been there.

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A first premonition of the rich variety of life had come to him; for the first time he thought he had understood the nature of human beings - they needed each other even when they appeared hostile, and it was very sweet to be loved by them.

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There's nothing so inhuman as a human being.

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Human beings have neither kindness, nor faith, nor charity beyond what serves to increase the pleasure of the moment.

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What I want is to live of that initial and primordial something that was what made some things reach the point of aspiring to be human.

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