If it's to be, it's up to me.

Every author, however modest, keeps a most outrageous vanity chained like a madman in the padded cell of his breast.

Whiskey has killed more men than bullets, but most men would rather be full of whiskey than bullets.

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?

The indefatigable pursuit of an unattainable perfection -even though nothing more than the pounding of an old piano -is what alone gives a meaning to our life on this unavailing star.

Solvency is entirely a matter of temperament and not of income.

It's an odd thing about this universe that, though we all disagree with each other, we are all of us always in the right.