One of the worst things about life is not how nasty the nasty people are. You know that already. It is how nasty the nice people can be.

Self-love seems so often unrequited.

Dinner at the Huntercombes' possessed only two dramatic features - the wine was a farce and the food a tragedy.

Few persons who have ever sat for a portrait can have felt anything but inferior while the process is going on.

A dance to the music of time.

I was impressed for the ten thousandth time by the fact that literature illuminates life only for those to whom books are a necessity. Books are unconvertible assets, to be passed on only to those who possess them already.

I get a warm feeling among my books.