Love stories are only fit for the solace of people in the insanity of puberty. No healthy adult human being can really care whether so-and-so does or does not succeed in satisfying his physiological uneasiness by the aid of some particular person or not.

This complaining rambling rubbish is the substitute which has taken the place of love.

I have never grown out of the infantile belief that the universe was made for me to suck.

If one had to worry about one's actions in respect of other people's ideas, one might as well be buried alive in an antheap or married to an ambitious violinist. Whether that man is the prime minister, modifying his opinions to catch votes, or a bourgeois in terror lest some harmless act should be misunderstood and outrage some petty convention, that man is an inferior man and I do not want to have anything to do with him any more than I want to eat canned salmon.

The more necessary anything appears to my mind, the most certain it is that I only assert a limitation.

I am certainly of opinion that genius can be acquired, or, in the alternative, that it is an almost universal possession.

Light, Life and Love are like three glow-worms at thy feet: the whole universe of stars, the dewdrops on the grass whereon thou walkest!