I find a fascination, like the fascination for the moth of a star, in those who hold aloof and disdain me.

How many of our daydreams would darken into nightmares if there seemed any danger of their coming true!

Our names are labels, plainly printed on the bottled essence of our past behavior.

Charming people live up to the very edge of their charm, and behave as outrageously as the world will let them.

Fine writers should split hairs together, and sit side by side, like friendly apes, to pick the fleas from each others fur.

What humbugs we are, who pretend to live for beauty, and never see the dawn!

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?