Those who set out to serve both God and Mammon soon discover that there isn't a God.

It is the dread of something happening, something unknown and dreadful, that makes us do anything to keep the flicker of talk from dying out.

We need new friends; some of us are cannibals who have eaten their old friends up; others must have ever-renewed audiences before whom to re-enact the ideal version of their lives.

We grow with years more fragile in body, but morally stutter, and can throw off the chill of a bad conscience almost at once.

Most people sell their souls, and live with a good conscience on the proceeds.

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

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?