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

What things there are to write, if one could only write them! My mind is full of gleaming thought; gay moods and mysterious, moth-like meditations hover in my imagination, fanning their painted wings. But always the rarest, those streaked with azure and the deepest crimson, flutter away beyond my reach.

Style is a magic wand, and turns everything to gold that it touches.

Give me a bed and a book and I am happy.

Happiness is a wine of the rarest vintage, and seems insipid to a vulgar taste.

This nice and subtle happiness of reading, this joy not chilled by age, this polite and unpunished vice, this selfish, serene life-long intoxication.

The word snob belongs to the sour-grape vocabulary.