Ah, on what little things does happiness depend! I have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.

Irony is wasted on the stupid

It is a very poor consolation to be told that the man who has given one a bad dinner, or poor wine, is irreproachable in private life. Even the cardinal virtues cannot atone for half-cold entrees.

The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me.

To get back one's youth one has merely to repeat one's follies.

His style is chaos illumined by flashes of lightning. As a writer he has mastered everything except language.

If only the picture could grow old, and I stay young. For that...for that, I would give my SOUL for that.