I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles.

It is not that I think or believe, but that I know.

By a man's finger-nails, by his coat-sleeve, by his boots, by his trouser-knees, by the callosities of his forefinger and thumb, by his expression, by his shirt-cuff — By each of these things a man's calling is plainly revealed. That all united should fail to enlighten the competent inquirer in any case is almost inconceivable. You know that a conjurer gets no credit when once he has explained his trick; and if I show you too much of my method of working, you will come to the conclusion that I am a very ordinary individual after all.

I cannot live without brainwork. What else is there to live for? Stand at the window here. Was ever such a dreary, dismal, unprofitable world? See how the yellow fog swirls down the street and drifts across the duncoloured houses. What could be more hopelessly prosaic and material?

Desultory readers are seldom remarkable for the exactness of their learning.

To underestimate oneself is as much an exaggeration of one's powers than the other.

It is, of course, a trifle, but there is nothing so important as trifles.