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.
Never say you know the last word about any human heart.
I don't want everyone to like me; I should think less of myself if some people did.
The visible world is but man turned inside out that he may be revealed to himself.
There's no more usual basis of union than mutual misunderstanding.
He is outside of everything, and alien everywhere. He is an aesthetic solitary. His beautiful, light imagination is the wing that on the autumn evening just brushes the dusky window.