The delicate balance between modesty and conceit is popularity.
When hospitality becomes an art it loses its very soul.
I believe the twenty-four hour day has come to stay.
The loveliest face in all the world will not please you if you see it suddenly eye to eye, at a distance of half an inch from your own.
It is a part of English hypocrisy or English reserve, that whilst we are fluent enough in grumbling about small inconveniences, we insist on making light of any great difficulties or grief's that may beset us.
You will find that the woman who is really kind to dogs is always one who has failed to inspire sympathy in men.
Of all the objects of hatred, a woman once loved is the most hateful.
Men prominent in life are mostly hard to converse with. They lack small-talk, and at the same time one doesn't like to confront them with their own great themes.
There is laughter that goes so far as to lose all touch with its motive, and to exist only, grossly, in itself. This is laughter at its best. A man to whom such laughter has often been granted may happen to die in a work-house. No matter. I will not admit that he has failed in life. Another man, who has never laughed thus, may be buried in Westminster Abbey, leaving more than a million pounds overhead. What then? I regard him as a failure.
People who insist on telling their dreams are among the terrors of the breakfast table.
Undergraduates owe their happiness chiefly to the consciousness that they are no longer at school. The nonsense which was knocked out of them at school is all put gently back at Oxford or Cambridge.
It distresses me, this failure to keep pace with the leaders of thought, as they pass into oblivion.
Nobody ever died of laughter.
Death cancels all engagements.
In every human being one or the other of these two instincts is predominant: the active or positive instinct to offer hospitality, the negative or passive instinct to accept it. And either of these instincts is so significant of character that one might as well say that mankind is divisible into two great classes: hosts and guests.
I may be old fashioned, but I am right.
Have you noticed ... there is never any third act in a nightmare? They bring you to a climax of terror and then leave you there. They are the work of poor dramatists.
"After all," as a pretty girl once said to me, "women are a sex by themselves, so to speak."
No Roman ever was able to say, 'I dined last night with the Borgias'.
To give an accurate and exhaustive account of that period would need a far less brilliant pen than mine.
A crowd, proportionately to its size, magnifies all that in its units pertains to the emotions, and diminishes all that in them pertains to thought.
Somehow, our sense of justice never turns in its sleep till long after the sense of injustice in others has been thoroughly aroused.
Of course we all know that Morris was a wonderful all-round man, but the act of walking round him has always tired me.
The lower one's vitality, the more sensitive one is to great art.
The dullard's envy of brilliant men is always assuaged by the suspicion that they will come to a bad end.
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