Life is terrible. It rules us, we do not rule it.

Though one can dine in New York, one could not dwell there.

Love is a misunderstanding between two fools.

I love scandals about other people, but scandals about myself don’t interest me. They have not got the charm of novelty.

I worshipped you too much. I am punished for it. You worshipped yourself too much. We are both punished.

The world is made by the singer for the dreamer.

As one reads history, not in the expurgated editions written for schoolboys and passmen, but in the original authorities of each time, one is absolutely sickened, not by the crimes that the wicked have committed, but by the punishments that the good have inflicted; and a community is infinitely more brutalised by the habitual employment of punishment than it is by the occasional occurrence of crime.