I wondered how far I should turn out faithful to that ideal conception of one's own personality every man sets up for himself secretly.

An artist is a man of action, whether he creates a personality, invents an expedient, or finds the issue of a complicated situation.

And yet is not mankind itself, pushing on its blind way, driven by a dream of its greatness and its power upon the dark paths of excessive cruelty and of excessive devotion. And what is the pursuit of truth, after all?

It is my belief no man ever understands quite his own artful dodges to escape from the grim shadow of self-knowledge.

In a way she actually preferred Peter to other people because of this. He always acted out of intelligent self-interest.

How does one kill fear, I wonder? How do you shoot a spectre through the heart, slash off its spectral head, take it by its spectral throat?