The faculty of attention has utterly vanished from the Anglo-Saxon mind, extinguished at its source by the big bayad?re of journalism, of the newspaper and the picture magazine which keeps screaming, "Look at me." Illustrations, loud simplifications... bill poster advertising ? only these stand a chance.

If this was love, love had been overrated.

Little by little, even with other cares, the slowly but surely working poison of the garden-mania begins to stir in my long-sluggish veins.

No, no—there are depths, depths! The more I go over it, the more I see in it, and the more I see in it, the more I fear. I don’t know what I don’t see—what I don’t fear!

I intend to judge things for myself; to judge wrongly, I think, is more honorable than not to judge at all.

An Englishman's never so natural as when he's holding his tongue.

My sole wish is to frustrate as utterly as possible the post-mortem exploiter.