He worked, not like a man who works that he may live; but as one who is bent on doing nothing but work; having no regard for himself as a human being but only as a creator; moving about grey and unobtrusive among his fellows like an actor without his make-up, who counts for nothing as soon as he stops representing something else.

Intelligence did not figure largely in anything he did and was often conspicuously absent.

Walpole has no intellect. A mere surgeon. A wonderful operator but, after all, what is operating? . . . . Manual labour.

This is the sage who always works for work’s sake without caring for the results.

The man was such an intellectual he was of almost no use.

But he was one of those weak creatures, void of pride, timorous, anemic, hateful souls, full of shifty cunning, who face neither God nor man, who face not even themselves.

The trouble with him was that he was without imagination.

Man is a tool using animal. Without tools he is nothing, with tools he is all.

Why, a trick horse is kind of like an actor — no dignity, no character of his own.

But throughout history the man of intelligence and wisdom has been merely so much useless lumber in view of the State's purposes.

Intellect has powerful muscles, but no personality.

The bourgeois sees in his wife a mere instrument of production.

A man with a machine and inadequate culture is a pestilence.

[S]urely the Cupid serving him was lefthanded, with a weak chin and no imagination.