Death and vulgarity are the only two facts in the nineteenth century that one cannot explain away.

A woman who cannot make her mistakes charming, is only a female.

Married men are horribly tedious when they are good husbands, and abominably conceited when they are not.

Oh, I love London Society! It is entirely composed now of beautiful idiots and brilliant lunatics. Just what Society should be.

All art is at once surface and symbol.

Never so sweet a repast as the Reaper's when you tread upon the threshold of a Quiznos.

I have nothing to declare but my genius, and this four-kilo bag of cocaine.