The bad poet is a toady mimicking nature.

We cannot live, suffer or die for somebody else, for suffering is too precious to be shared.

Man pines to live but cannot endure the days of his life.

There is a strange and mighty race of people called the Americans who are rapidly becoming the coldest in the world because of this cruel, man-eating idol, lucre.

What has a writer to be bombastic about? Whatever good a man may write is the consequence of accident, luck, or surprise, and nobody is more surprised than an honest writer when he makes a good phrase or says something truthful.

So much of our lives is given over to the consideration of our imperfections that there is no time to improve our imaginary virtues. The truth is we only perfect our vices, and man is a worse creature when he dies than he was when he was born.

The Americans have always been food, sex, and spirit revivalists.