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.

So, I never lose a sense of the whimsical and perilous charm of daily life, with its meetings and words and accidents.

I might give my life for my friend, but he had better not ask me to do up a parcel.

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

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

It is the wretchedness of being rich that you have to live with rich people.

How often my soul visits the National Gallery, and how seldom