I've never seen such a bunch of apple-eaters.

Don't tell people what you are thinking, or you will miss them terribly when you are away.

However contradictory the coroner's report — whether he pronounces Consumption or Loneliness or Suicide to be the cause of death — isn't it plain how the true artist-seer actually dies? I say that the true artist-seer, the heavenly fool who can and does produce beauty, is mainly dazzled to death by his own scruples, the blinding shapes and colors of his own sacred human conscience.

Yet a real artist, I've noticed, will survive anything. (Even praise, I happily suspect.)

Then again you may pick up just enough education to hate people who say, 'It's a secret between he and I.'

I was sixteen then, and I'm seventeen now, and sometimes I act like I'm about thirteen. Sometimes, I act a lot older than I am--I really do. But people never notice it. People never notice anything.

I don't really deeply feel that anyone needs an airtight reason for quoting from the works of writers he loves, but it's always nice, I'll grant you, if he has one.