People say that life is the thing, but I prefer reading.
The test of enjoyment is the remembrance which it leaves behind.
There are two things to aim at in life: first, to get what you want; and after that, to enjoy it. Only the wisest of mankind achieve the second.
An echo of music, a face in the street, the wafer of the new moon, a wanton thought - only in the iridescence of things the vagabond soul is happy.
A slight touch of friendly malice and amusement towards those we love keeps our affections for them from turning flat.
All my life, as down an abyss without a bottom. I have been pouring van loads of information into that vacancy of oblivion I call my mind.
It is the wretchedness of being rich that you have to live with rich people.
If you are losing your leisure, look out! You are losing your soul.
What is more mortifying than to feel that you have missed the plum for want of courage to shake the tree?
Style is a magic wand, and turns everything to gold that it touches.
What I like in a good author is not what he says but what he whispers.
What humbugs we are, who pretend to live for beauty, and never see the dawn!
Our names are labels, plainly printed on the bottled essence of our past behavior.
You cannot be both fashionable and first-rate
All mirrors are magical mirrors, and we never see our faces in them.
Self-respecting people do not care to peep at their reflections in unexpected mirrors, or to see themselves as others see them.
Many of our daydreams would darken into nightmares, were there a danger of their coming true!
The old know what they want; the young are sad and bewildered.
Most people sell their souls, and live with a good conscience on the proceeds.
There is more felicity on the far side of baldness than young men can possibly imagine.
Growing old is not a gradual decline, but a series of drops, full of sorrow, from one ledge to another below it.
The great art of writing is the art of making people real to themselves with words.
But why wasn't I born, alas, in an age of Adjectives; why can one no longer write of silver-shedding Tears and moon-tailed Peacocks, of eloquent Death, of the Negro and star-enameled Night?
This nice and subtle happiness of reading, this joy not chilled by age, this polite and unpunished vice, this selfish, serene life-long intoxication.
How often my soul visits the National Gallery, and how seldom
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