I am jealous of everything whose beauty does not die.

Pleasure is Nature's test, her sign of approval. When man is happy, he is in harmony with himself and his environment.

And now, I am dying beyond my means. (Said while sipping champagne on his deathbed.)

Any place you love is the world to you”, explained the pensive Catherine Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided herself on her broken heart; “but love is not fashionable any more, the poets have killed it. They wrote so much about that nobody believed them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I remember myself once- But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the past.

I find that forgiving one's enemies is a most curious morbid pleasure; perhaps I should check it.

Marriage is a long, dull meal with dessert served at the beginning.

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. The moment one sits down to think, one becomes all nose, or all forehead, or something horrid. Look at the successful men in any of the learned professions. How perfectly hideous they are! Except, of course, in the Church. But then in the Church they don't think.