People before the public live an imagined life in the thought of others, and flourish or feel faint as their self outside themselves grows bright or dwindles in that mirror.

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

What humbugs we are, who pretend to live for beauty, and never see the dawn!

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

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.

Most people sell their souls, and live with a good conscience on the proceeds.

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.