One who is constantly striving to force everything into a mechanical order at last becomes a machine himself and loses all human feeling.

The man-machine will crucify any conscious man who tries to help him; and convert his wisdom into an empty, mechanical dogma that suits his own understanding.

It is never the machines that are dead.
It is only the mechanically-minded men that are dead.

To a man utterly without a sense of belonging, mere life is all that matters. It is the only reality in an eternity of nothingness, and he clings to it with shameless despair.

...count no man happy till he dies, free of pain at last.

and the same man who spends so many days and nights in fury and despair at losing some office or at some imaginary affront to his honour is the very one who knows that he is going to lose everything through death and feels neither anxiety nor emotion.

Nothing but the infinite Pity is sufficient for the infinite pathos of human life.

Machines are as nothing without men. Men are as nothing without morale.

This is the bitterest pain among men, to have much knowledge but no power.

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless.

Happiness will never be found in the spirit of every man for him self.

I am a man who believes nothing, hopes nothing, fears nothing, feels nothing. I am beyond the pale of humanity [...]

He had power only to feel, and feeling was torment.

I tell you hopeless grief is passionless,
That only men incredulous of despair,
Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God’s throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
In souls, as countries, lieth silent-bare
Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy dead in silence like to death — Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet;
If it could weep, it could arise and go.