The East is a montage. It is old and it is young, very green in summer, very white in winter, gregarious, withdrawn and at once both sophisticated and provincial.

Relations are errors that Nature makes. / Your spouse you can put on the shelf. / But your friends, dear friends, are the quaint mistakes / You always commit yourself.

Mere wealth, I am above it, / It is the reputation wide, / The playwright's pomp, the poet's pride / That eagerly I covet.

The mass of men live lives of quiet exasperation.

Seventy is wormwood, Seventy is gall But its better to be seventy, Than not alive at all.

People are no longer sinful, they are only immature or underprivileged or frightened or, more particularly, sick.

Scratch any father, you find / Someone chock-full of qualms and romantic terrors, / Believing change is a threat.