A writer wastes nothing.

I care not who hoes the lettuce of my country if I can eat the salad!

Most affectations conceal something eventually, even though they don't in the beginning.

The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to.

Her beauty climbed the rolling slope, it came into the room, rustling ghost-like through the curtains.

How strange to have failed as a social creature—even criminals do not fail that way—they are the law's "Loyal Opposition," so to speak. But the insane are always mere guests on earth, eternal strangers carrying around broken decalogues that they cannot read.

The rhythm of the weekend, with its birth, its planned gaiety, and its announced end, followed the rhythm of life and was a substitute for it.