Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword! Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: The kindest use a knife, because The dead so soon grow cold. Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves, Yet each man does not die.

In a very ugly and sensible age, the arts borrow, not from life, but from each other.

To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all.

Discontent is the first step in the progress of a man or a nation.

The only way to atone for being occasionally overdressed is to be massively overeducated.

Christ did not die to save people, but to teach people how to save each other. This is, I have no doubt, a grave heresy, but it is also a fact.

Nobody ever commits a crime without doing something stupid.