Fine writers should split hairs together, and sit side by side, like friendly apes, to pick the fleas from each others fur.

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

The test of enjoyment is the remembrance which it leaves behind.

Solvency is entirely a matter of temperament and not of income.

But why wasn't I born, alas, in an age of Adjectives; why can one no longer write of silver-shedding Tears and moon-tailed Peacocks, of eloquent Death, of the Negro and star-enameled Night?

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?

An improper mind is a perpetual feast.