The mind is its own enemy, that fights itself with the innumerable pliant and ineluctable arms of the octopus.

A great many quite good plays could be performed with rhythmic howls in the place of dialogue and lose almost nothing by the change.

It isn't only living people who die, it is great stretches of living, which can die even when the people who lived there still exist.

There are acacias, a graceful species amusingly devitalized by sentimentality, this kind drooping its leaves with the grace of a young widow bowed in controllable grief, this one obscuring them with a smooth silver as of placid tears. They please, like the minor French novelists of the eighteenth century, by suggesting a universe in which nothing cuts deep.

History sometimes acts as madly as heredity, and her most unpredictable performances are often her most glorious.

There is no logical reason why the camel of great art should pass through the needle of mob intelligence.

All disgrace smells alike. Differences in ruin are only matters of degree.