When elderly invalids meet with fellow-victims of their own ailments, then at last real conversation begins, and life is delicious.

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.

Those who set out to serve both God and Mammon soon discover that there isn't a God.

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

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.

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.

We should nourish our souls on the dew of Poesy, and manure them as well.