Every woman becomes their mother. That's their tragedy. And no man becomes his. That's his tragedy.

How strange a thing this is! The Priest telleth me that the Soul is worth all the gold in the world, and the merchants say that it is not worth a clipped piece of silver.

Ordinary riches can be stolen; real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.

I suppose society is wonderfully delightful. To be in it is merely a bore. But to be out of it is simply a tragedy.

I don't want to go to heaven. None of my friends are there.

The gods bestowed on Max [Beerbohm] the gift of perpetual old age.

Anybody can make history; only a great man can write it.