The great art of writing is the art of making people real to themselves with words.

All my life, as down an abyss without a bottom. I have been pouring van loads of information into that vacancy of oblivion I call my mind.

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

The ladies who try to keep their beauty are the ladies who lose it.

When elderly invalids meet with fellow-victims of their own ailments, then at last real conversation begins, and life is delicious.

When we say we are certain so-and-so can't possibly have done it, what we mean is that we think he very likely did.

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