I am sick of women who love one. Women who hate one are much more interesting.

What is termed Sin is an essential element of progress. Without it the world would stagnate, or grow old, or become colorless. By its curiosity Sin increases the experience of the race. Through its intensified assertion of individualism it saves us from monotony of type. In its rejection of the current notions about morality, it is one with the higher ethics.

A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not worth even glancing at, for it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing. And when Humanity lands there, it looks out, and, seeing a better country, sets sail. Progress is the realisation of Utopias.

I never saw a man who looked With such a wistful eye Upon that little tent of blue Which prisoners call the sky.

Nothing makes one so vain as being told that one is a sinner.

A work of art is the unique result of a unique temperament.

She is very clever, too clever for a woman. She lacks the indefinable charm of weakness.