What I like in a good author is not what he says but what he whispers.

All mirrors are magical mirrors, and we never see our faces in them.

But why wasn't I born, alas, in an age of Adjectives; why can one no longer write of silver-shedding Tears and moon-tailed Peacocks, of eloquent Death, of the Negro and star-enameled Night?

A slight touch of friendly malice and amusement towards those we love keeps our affections for them from turning flat.

The old know what they want; the young are sad and bewildered.

People before the public live an imagined life in the thought of others, and flourish or feel faint as their self outside themselves grows bright or dwindles in that mirror.

The word snob belongs to the sour-grape vocabulary.