Green leaves on a dead tree is our epitaph-green leaves, dear reader, on a dead tree.

Greed, like the love of comfort, is a kind of fear.

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

There is no more sombre enemy of good art than the pram in the hall.

As repressed sadists are supposed to become policemen or butchers so those with an irrational fear of life become publishers.

When we have ceased to love the stench of the human animal, either in others or in ourselves, then are we condemned to misery, and clear thinking can begin.

The dread of loneliness is greater than the fear of bondage, so we get married.