Oh, what is young love! The urge of the race. A blaze that ends in babies or ashes.

... the irony of life is not that you cannot forget but that you can.

We never care to know new people unless we are sure we shall like them.

The only real rival of love is Art, for that in itself is a deep personal passion, its function an act of creation, fed by some mysterious perversion of sex, and demanding all the imagination's activities.

It took me some time to learn that although every one secretly cherishes the ambition to be 'put in a book,' no one is ever satisfied with anything save incense, butter, and honey, unrelieved by salt or spice.

Oh, what is young love! The urge of the race. A blaze that ends in babies or ashes.

Better extirpate the whole breed, root and branch. And this, unless the German people come to their senses, is what we propose to do.