An improper mind is a perpetual feast.

The notion of making money by popular work, and then retiring to do good work, is the most familiar of all the devil's traps for artists.

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.

Happiness is a wine of the rarest vintage, and seems insipid to a vulgar taste.

People have a right to be shocked; the mention of unmentionable things is a kind of participation in them.

The word snob belongs to the sour-grape vocabulary.

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