Parks are but pavement disguised with a growth of grass.

And why should any man who writes, even if he writes things immortal, nurse anger at the world's neglect? Who asked him to publish? Who promised him a hearing? Who has broken faith with him? Your poem, your novel, who bargained with you for it?

Human creatures have a mervellous power of adapting themselves to necessity.

To every man it is decreed: Thou shalt live alone. Happy they who imagine that they have escaped the common lot; happy, whilst they imagine it.

I have the happiness of a passing moment, and what more can mortal ask?

I am much better employed from every point of view, when I live solely for my own satisfaction, than when I begin to worry about the world. The world frightens me, and a frightened man is no good for anything.

A pipe for the hour of work; a cigarette for the hour of conception; a cigar for the hour of vacuity.