Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.

But beauty, real beauty, ends where an intellectual expression begins. Intellect is in itself a mode of exaggeration, and destroys the harmony of any face.

There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves we feel no one else has a right to blame us.

When bankers get together they talk about art. When artists get together, they talk about money.

Crying is the refuge of plain women but the ruin of pretty ones.

It is absurd to say that there are neither ruins nor curiosities in America when they have their mothers and their manners.

What is termed Sin is an essential element of progress. Without it the world would stagnate, or grow old, or become colourless.