I know sage, wormwood, and hyssop, but I can't smell character unless it stinks.

What is most appalling in an F. Scott Fitzgerald book is that it is peopleless fiction: Fitzgerald writes about spectral, muscledsuits; dresses, hats, and sleeves which have some sort of vague, libidinous throb. These are plainly the product of sickness.

The bad poet is a toady mimicking nature.

We are uneasy with an affectionate man, for we are positive he wants something of us, particularly our love.

I would rather take hellebore than spend a conversation with a good, little man.

We can only write well about our sins because it is too difficult to recall a virtuous act or even whether it was the result of good or evil motives.

A man who can be entertaining for a full day will be in his grave by night-fall.