Every author, however modest, keeps a most outrageous vanity chained like a madman in the padded cell of his breast.
Style is a magic wand, and turns everything to gold that it touches.
What I like in a good author is not what he says but what he whispers.
The mere process of growing old together will make the slightest acquaintance seem a bosom friend.
What humbugs we are, who pretend to live for beauty, and never see the dawn!
What pursuit is more elegant than that of collecting the ignominies of our nature and transfixing them for show, each on the bright pin of a polished phrase?