Genius, like truth, has a shabby and neglected mien.

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.

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

It takes a long time to understand nothing.

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.

Every decision you make is a mistake.

The bad poet is a toady mimicking nature.