I like looking at geniuses and listening to beautiful people.

Immanuel isn't a pun; he Kant be!

I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die. I am jealous of the portrait you have painted of me. Why should it keep what I must lose? Every moment that passes takes something from me and gives something to it. Oh, if it were only the other way! If the picture could change, and I could be always what I am now! Why did you paint it? It will mock me some day—mock me horribly!

Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the world.

The gods bestowed on Max [Beerbohm] the gift of perpetual old age.

There are moments, psychologists tell us, when the passion for sin, or what the world calls sin, so dominates a nature, that every fibre of the body, as every cell of the brain, seems to be instinct with fearful impulses. Men and women at such moments lose the freedom of their will. They move to their terrible end as automatons move. Choice is taken from them, and conscience is either killed, or, if it lives at all, lives but to give rebellion its fascination, and disobedience its charm.

Intuition is a strange instinct that tells a woman she is right, whether she is or not.