Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.

The artist is present in every page of every book from which he sought so assiduously to eliminate himself.

It doesn't so much matter what you do in particular, so long as you have your life.

There were always people to snatch at you, and it would never occur to them that they were eating you up. They did that without tasting.

To kill a human being is, after all, the least injury you can do him.

The only success worth one's powder was success in the line of one's idiosyncrasy... what was talent but the art of being completely whatever one happened to be?

There are moods in which one feels the impulse to enter a tacit protest against too gross an appetite for pure aesthetics in this starving and sinning world. One turns half away, musingly, from certain beautiful useless things.