I sometimes think that God in creating man somewhat overestimated his ability.
Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away.
For life is terribly deficient in form. Its catastrophes happen in the wrong way and to the wrong people. There is a grotesque horror about its comedies, and its tragedies seem to culminate in farce.
In matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity, is the vital thing.
Why was I born with such contemporaries?
Moderation is a fatal thing. Nothing succeeds like excess.