Dining out is a vice, a dissipation of spirit punished by remorse. We eat, drink, and talk a little too much, abuse all our friends, belch out our literary preferences and are egged on by accomplices in the audience to acts of mental exhibitionism. Such evenings cannot fail to diminish those who take part in them. They end on Monkey Hill.

How many books did Renoir write on how to paint?

There is no fury like an ex-wife searching for a new lover.

We love but once, for once only are we perfectly equipped for loving.

An aesthetic movement with a revolutionary dynamism and no popular appeal should proceed quite otherwise than by public scandal, publicity stunt, noisy expulsion and excommunication.

No city should be too large for a man to walk out of in a morning.

Civilization is maintained by a very few people in a small number of places and we need only some bombs and a few prisons to blot it out altogether.