For one moment our lives met, our souls touched.

Actors are so fortunate. They can choose whether they will appear in tragedy or in comedy, whether they will suffer or make merry, laugh or shed tears. But in real life it is different. Most men and women are forced to perform parts for which they have no qualifications. Our Guildensterns play Hamlet for us, and our Hamlets have to jest like Prince Hal. The world is a stage, but the play is badly cast.

Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.

Private information is practically the source of every large modern fortune.

Everyone should keep someone else's diary.

There is only good art and mediocre art.

This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.