An improper mind is a perpetual feast.

The mere process of growing old together will make the slightest acquaintance seem a bosom friend.

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?

Charming people live up to the very edge of their charm, and behave as outrageously as the world will let them.

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

How can they say my life is not a success? Have I not for more than sixty years got enough to eat and escaped being eaten?

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