The highest possible stage in moral culture is when we recognize that we ought to control our thoughts.

The brain is an unreliable organ, it is monstrously great, monstrously developed. Swollen, like a goiter.

What the brain does by itself is infinitely more fascinating and complex than any response it can make to chemical stimulation.

What a torture to talk to filled heads that allow nothing from the outside to enter them.

The mind of man is capable of anything.

The brain may be regarded as a kind of parasite of the organism, a pensioner, as it were, who dwells with the body.

Every thought is, strictly speaking, an afterthought.

The mind is not, I know, a highway but a temple, and its doors should not be carelessly left open.

Brains are the only things worth having in this world.

From a man’s face, I can read his character. If I can see him walk, I know his thoughts.

Sanity is madness put to good uses; waking life is a dream controlled.

Imagination continually outruns the creature it inhabits.

What is outside my mind means nothing to it.