What things there are to write, if one could only write them! My mind is full of gleaming thought; gay moods and mysterious, moth-like meditations hover in my imagination, fanning their painted wings. But always the rarest, those streaked with azure and the deepest crimson, flutter away beyond my reach.

If you want to be thought a liar, always tell the truth

An improper mind is a perpetual feast.

Don't tell friends their social faults; they will cure the fault and never forgive you.

Money and sex are forces too unruly for our reason; they can only be controlled by taboos with which we tamper at our peril.

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

The mere process of growing old together will make the slightest acquaintance seem a bosom friend.