How it infuriates a bigot when he is forced to drag out his dark convictions!

— Logan Pearsall Smith

How many of our daydreams would darken into nightmares if there seemed any danger of their coming true!

— Logan Pearsall Smith

I cannot forgive my friends for dying: I do not find these vanishing acts of theirs at all amusing.

— Logan Pearsall Smith

If you want to be thought a liar, always tell the truth.

— Logan Pearsall Smith

It is the wretchedness of being rich that you have to live with rich people.

— Logan Pearsall Smith

It takes a great man to give sound advice tactfully, but a greater to accept it graciously.

— Logan Pearsall Smith

Married women are kept women and they are beginning to find it out.

— Logan Pearsall Smith

Most people sell their souls and live with a good conscience on the proceeds.

— Logan Pearsall Smith

One can be bored until boredom becomes a mystical experience.

— Logan Pearsall Smith

One late winter afternoon in Oxford Street, amid the noise of vehicles and voices that filled that dusky thoroughfare, as I was borne onward with the crowd past the great electric-lighted shops, a holy Indifference filled my thoughts. Illusion had faded from me; I was not touched by any desire for the goods displayed in those golden windows, nor had I the smallest share in the appetites and fears of all those moving and anxious faces. And as I listened with Asiatic detachment to the London traffic, its sound changed into something ancient and dissonant and sad—into the turbid flow of that stream of Craving which sweeps men onward through the meaningless cycles of Existence, blind and enslaved forever. But I had reached the farther shore, the Harbor of Deliverance, the Holy City; the Great Peace beyond all this turmoil and fret compassed me around. Om Mani padre hum—I murmured the sacred syllables, smiling with the pitying smile of the Enlightened One on his heavenly lotus. Then, in a shop-window, I saw a neatly fitted suitcase. I liked that suitcase; I desired to possess it. Immediately I was enveloped by the mists of Illusion, chained once more to the Wheel of Existence, whirled onward along Oxford Street in that turbid stream of wrong-belief, and lust, and sorrow, and anger.

— Logan Pearsall Smith