How ungenerously in later life we disclaim the virtuous moods of our youth, living in retrospect long, summer days of unreflecting dissipation.
The anguished suspense of watching the lips you hunger for, framing the words, the death sentence, of sheer triteness!
What is youth except a man or a woman before it is ready or fit to be seen.
You never find an Englishman among the under-dogs except in England, of course.
There's only one great evil in the world today. Despair.
An artist must be a reactionary