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.

When they come downstairs from their Ivory Towers, idealists are very apt to walk straight into the gutter.

How can they say my life is not a success? Have I not for more than sixty years got enough to eat and escaped being eaten?

An echo of music, a face in the street, the wafer of the new moon, a wanton thought - only in the iridescence of things the vagabond soul is happy.

Thank heavens, the sun has gone in and I don’t have to go out and enjoy it.

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

A slight touch of friendly malice and amusement towards those we love keeps our affections for them from turning flat.