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?

There is more felicity on the far side of baldness than young men can possibly imagine.

The world is not unkind, and reprobates are worse than their reputations.

There are people who, like houses, are beautiful in dilapidation.

Those who talk on the razor-edge of double-meanings pluck the rarest blooms from the precipice on either side.

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.

Don't laugh at youth for his affectations; he is only trying on one face after another to find his own.