Work is the curse of the drinking classes.

Don't imagine that your perfection lies in accumulating or possessing external things. Your affection is inside of you.

The evolution of man is slow. The injustice of men is great.

Nobody of any real culture, for instance, ever talks nowadays about the beauty of sunset. Sunsets are quite old fashioned. To admire them is a distinct sign of provincialism of temperament. Upon the other hand they go on.

But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face.

Through our sunless lanes creeps Poverty with her hungry eyes, and Sin with his sodden face follows close behind her. Misery wakes us in the morning and Shame sits with us at night.

If one doesn't talk about a thing, it has never happened. It is simply expression that gives reality to things.