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

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

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

Give me a bed and a book and I am happy.

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.

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.

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?