A thought falls like a ripe fruit from the tree of idleness.

All expression, all art, is an indiscretion we commit against ourselves. This is not an 'impoverishment' but an increase in wealth, for it is in this way that we make the short hours of our lives live on beyond themselves.

There are. intangible realities which float near us, formless and without words; realities which no one has thought out, and which are excluded for lack of interpreters.

What makes bad writers so annoying is their good passages.

doubt seems the only purity for those who are too fervent to deny, and too lucid to affirm.

Indiscretion has always seemed to me to be one of the privileges of tact.

... anything difficult to say must be shouted from the rooftops.