So, I never lose a sense of the whimsical and perilous charm of daily life, with its meetings and words and accidents.

Our names are labels, plainly printed on the bottled essence of our past behavior.

I like to walk down Bond Street, thinking of all the things I don't desire.

We need two kinds of acquaintances, one to complain to, while to the others we boast.

Self-respecting people do not care to peep at their reflections in unexpected mirrors, or to see themselves as others see them.

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?

All our lives we are putting pennies — our most golden pennies — into penny-in-the-slot machines that are almost always empty.