What we have to do, what at any rate it is our duty to do, is to revive the old art of Lying.

Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.

My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One of us has got to go.

The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is quite useless.

It is sweet to dance to violins When love and life are fair: To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes Is delicate and rare: But it is not sweet with nimble feet To dance upon the air!

But she is happiest alone. She is happiest alone.

What is said of man is nothing; the point is, who says it.