There is something curiously boring about somebody else's happiness.

The worst enemy of life, freedom and the common decencies is total anarchy; their second worst enemy is total efficiency.

Where beauty is worshipped for beauty's sake as a goddess, independent of and superior to morality and philosophy, the most horrible putrefaction is apt to set in. The lives of the aesthetes are the far from edifying commentary on the religion of beauty.

One cubic centimeter cures ten gloomy sentiments.

A million million spermatozoa, All of them alive: Out of their cataclysm but one poor Noah Dare hope to survive.

It's with bad sentiments that one makes good novels.

A bad book is as much of a labor to write as a good one, it comes as sincerely from the author's soul.