Celibacy goes deeper than the flesh.

A sense of the fundamental decencies is parceled out unequally at birth.

Every one suspects himself of at least one of the cardinal virtues.

Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure and the memory so possessed him that for the moment there was nothing to do but to pretend.

You remind me of a smoked cigarette.

A writer wastes nothing.

Now the standard cure for one who is sunk is to consider those in actual destitution or physical suffering—this is an all-weather beatitude for gloom in general and fairly salutary day-time advice for everyone. But at three o’clock in the morning, a forgotten package has the same tragic importance as a death sentence, and the cure doesn’t work—and in a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.