Love can bear anything better than ridicule.

anybody who drinks seriously is poor: so poor, poor, extra poor, me.

[On journalists:] They are the scavengers of society who, possessing no guts of their own, tear out the guts of celebrities. They have the sycophantic, false enthusing gush of maiden aunts: who are accustomed to being trampled on doormats.

[On journalists:] They are as disruptive a menace to the public body: as grating turds in the intestines are to the private body.

The wretched Artist himself is alternatively the lowest worm that ever crawled when no fire is in him; or the loftiest God that ever sand when the fire is going.

Fearful as reality is, it is less fearful than evasions of reality. Look steadfastly into the slit, pinpointed malignant eyes of reality as an old-hand trainer dominates his wild beasts.

In America they make too much fuss of poets; in London they make too little.