When one individual comes into intimate contact with another, she—or he, of course, as the case may be—must almost inevitably receive or inflict suffering.

A man can smile and smile and be a villain.

Speed, it seems to me, provides the one genuinely modern pleasure.

Hell isn't merely paved with good intentions; it's walled and roofed with them. Yes, and furnished too.

To associate with other like-minded people in small, purposeful groups is for the great majority of men and women a source of profound psychological satisfaction. Exclusiveness will add to the pleasure of being several, but at one; and secrecy will intensify it almost to ecstasy.

If Men and Women took their Pleasures as noisily as the Cats, what Londoner could ever hope to sleep of nights?

Every man's memory is his private literature.