I have put my talent into writing, my genius I have saved for living.

God knows; I won't be an Oxford don anyhow. I'll be a poet, a writer, a dramatist. Somehow or other I'll be famous, and if not famous, I'll be notorious. Or perhaps I'll lead the life of pleasure for a time and then—who knows?—rest and do nothing. What does Plato say is the highest end that man can attain here below? To sit down and contemplate the good. Perhaps that will be the end of me too.

Something was dead in each of us, and what was dead was hope

No man dies for what he knows to be true. Men die for what they want to be true, for what some terror in their hearts tells them is not true.

Well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt with. Girls don't think it right.

I hate people who are not serious about meals. It is so shallow of them.

But what of life whose bitter hungry sea Flows at our heels, and gloom of sunless night Covers the days which never more return? Ambition, love and all the thoughts that burn We lose too soon, and only find delight In withered husks of some dead memory.