Beerbohm was a genius of the purest kind. He stands at the summit of his art.

His heart; some long word at the heart. He is dying of a long word.

I think there's almost nothing I can't excuse except perhaps worshiping graven images. That seems to be idiotic.

The sky over London was glorious, ochre and madder, as though a dozen tropic suns were simultaneously setting round the horizon . . . Everywhere the shells sparkled like Christmas baubles.

There is no ordinary run of mankind, there are only individuals who are totally different. And whether a man is naked and black and stands on one foot in Sudan or is clothed in some kind of costume in a bus in England, they are still individuals of entirely different characters.

Soon someone would say the fatal words, "Well, I think it’s time for me to go to bed.

Conversation should be like juggling; up go the balls and plates, up and over, in and out, good solid objects that glitter in the footlights and fall with a bang if you miss them.