The sadness of the incomplete, the sadness that is often Life, but should never be Art.

Life is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.

Reverence is fatal to literature.

How few writers can prostitute all their powers!

A facade of skyscrapers facing a lake and behind the facade, every type of dubiousness.

He was obliged however to throw over Christianity. Those who base their conduct upon what they are rather than upon what they ought to be, always must throw it over in the end . . . .

Their quarrel was no more surprising than are most quarrels — inevitable at the time, incredible afterwards.