Rum," said I—happy to have found something I could talk about—"rum has — Three Comrades

"Modesty and conscientiousness receive their reward only in novels. In life they are exploited and then shoved aside."

"She took the cigarette but soon laid it aside. "I dont like the taste, Robby. I just dont like it any more." I laughed. "Its always so when youve been deprived of anything for a long time." "You were deprived of me for a long time," said she. "Its so only with poisons," I replied: "Schnapps and tobacco." "Human beings are a much worse poison than schnapps or tobacco, darling." I laughed. "You are a clever child, Pat."

"Pats face was full of mystery, irradiated by the light from the stage. She was wholly surrendered; and I loved her that she did not lean toward me or reach for my hand, yes, did not once look at me, but appeared not to think of me at all and to have quite forgotten me. I hate it when people mix things, I hate the cowlike yearning toward one another while the beauty and the power of a great work breaks over one; I hate the swimming looks of lovers, the foolish blissful cuddling, the indecent sheepish happiness that can never rise above itself; I hate all the talk of becoming one through love; it seems to me we cannot sufficiently be two nor remove ourselves from one another often enough in order to meet again. Only those who are constantly alone know the joy of being together. Anything else breaks the spell of the tension. And what can more powerfully penetrate the magic circle of solitude than the uprush of emotion, the surrender to a shock, the might of the elements, storm, night music? And love . . ."

"What is it, Pat?" I asked. "It ticks so loud," she whispered. "What? The watch?" She nodded. "Its so threatening—" I took the watch off my wrist. She looked anxiously at the second hand. "Throw it away." I took the watch and flung it against the wall. "There, its not ticking any more now. Now time is standing still. Weve torn it in two. Now only we two are here; we two, you and me and no one else." She looked at me. Her eyes were very big. "Darling—" she whispered. I could not bear her glance. It came from far away and passed through me to some place beyond. "Old lad," I murmured, "dear, brave, old lad."

"A true idealist strives for money. Money is mental freedom. And freedom is life. [...] One shouldnt talk scornfully about money. Its money brings many a woman a lover. Love on the other hand makes many a man avaricious. Money therefore furthers the ideal—love versus materialism. The man [...] only becomes avaricious as a result of the womans desires. If there werent women there wouldnt be money, and the men would be a race of heroes. In the trenches there were no women—it didnt count for much there, either, how well off a man was. It came back to what he was as a man. And thats not to say anything for the trenches; thats only to show love up in its true light. It rouses the evil instincts in man—the urge to possession, standing, profits, comfort. Its not for nothing dictators like to see their subordinates married—that way they are less dangerous. And not for nothing do Catholic priests have no wives—they would never be such bold missionaries otherwise."

"Birthdays weigh heavily on ones self-esteem. Early in the morning especially."