Fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so lightly perhaps, but still attached to life at all four corners. Often the attachment is scarcely perceptible; Shakespeare's plays, for instance, seem to hang there complete by themselves. But when the web is pulled askew, hooked up at the edge, torn in the middle, one remembers that these webs are not spun in midair by incorporeal creatures, but are the work of suffering human beings, and are attached to the grossly material things, like health and money and the houses we live in. A Room of One's Own

A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing. The Soul of Man Under Socialism

“Whereas the truth is that the State in which the rulers are most reluctant to govern is always the best and most quietly governed, and the State in which they are most eager, the worst.” Republic

“No matter how large, how crowded, and how abundant an empire is, there is always a shortage of men.” Samarkand