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.

You cannot be both fashionable and first-rate

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.

I can't forgive my friends for dying; I don't find these vanishing acts of theirs at all amusing.

Only those who get into scrapes with their eyes open can find the safe way out.

Hearts that are delicate and kind and tongues that are neither - these make the finest company in the world.

It is the dread of something happening, something unknown and dreadful, that makes us do anything to keep the flicker of talk from dying out.