Hearts that are delicate and kind and tongues that are neither - these make the finest company in the world.
Style is a magic wand, and turns everything to gold that it touches.
The notion of making money by popular work, and then retiring to do good work, is the most familiar of all the devil's traps for artists.
It is the dread of something happening, something unknown and dreadful, that makes us do anything to keep the flicker of talk from dying out.
There are people whose society I find delicious; but when I sit alone and think of them I shudder.
We grow with years more fragile in body, but morally stutter, and can throw off the chill of a bad conscience almost at once.
So, I never lose a sense of the whimsical and perilous charm of daily life, with its meetings and words and accidents.
Every author, however modest, keeps a most outrageous vanity chained like a madman in the padded cell of his breast.
The indefatigable pursuit of an unattainable perfection -even though nothing more than the pounding of an old piano -is what alone gives a meaning to our life on this unavailing star.
The lusts and greeds of the body scandalize the Soul; but it has to come to heel.
I am one of the unpraised, unrewarded millions without whom Statistics would be a bankrupt science. It is we who are born, who marry, who die, in constant ratios.
Only among people who think no evil can Evil monstrously flourish.
Eat with the rich, but go to the play with the poor, who are capable of joy.
To become young again would seem to me an appalling prospect. Youth is a kind of delirium, which can be cured, if it is ever cured at all, by years of painful treatment.
For souls in growth, great quarrels are great emancipations.
Thank heavens, the sun has gone in and I don’t have to go out and enjoy it.
You cannot be both fashionable and first-rate
Friends such as we desire are dreams and fables, yet we never quite give up the hope of finding them.
Growing old is not a gradual decline, but a series of drops, full of sorrow, from one ledge to another below it.
Fine writers should split hairs together, and sit side by side, like friendly apes, to pick the fleas from each others fur.
What shall I compare it to, this fantastic thing I call my Mind? To a waste-paper basket, to a sieve choked with sediment, or to a barrel full of floating froth and refuse? No, what it is really most like is a spider's web, insecurely hung on leaves and twigs, quivering in every wind, and sprinkled with dewdrops and dead flies. And at its centre, pondering forever the Problem of Existence, sits motionless the spider-like and uncanny Soul.
The old know what they want; the young are sad and bewildered.
When they come downstairs from their Ivory Towers, idealists are very apt to walk straight into the gutter.
What things there are to write, if one could only write them! My mind is full of gleaming thought; gay moods and mysterious, moth-like meditations hover in my imagination, fanning their painted wings. But always the rarest, those streaked with azure and the deepest crimson, flutter away beyond my reach.
Happiness is a wine of the rarest vintage, and seems insipid to a vulgar taste.
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