every human activity, whether it be love, philosophy, art, or revolution, is carried on with a special intensity in Paris.

[The satirist] must fully possess, at least in the world of the imagination, the quality the lack of which he is deriding in others.

Babbitt as a book was planless; its end arrived apparently because its author had come to the end of the writing-pad, or rather, one might suspect from its length, to the end of all writing-pads then on the market.

Motherhood is neither a duty nor a privilege, but simply the way that humanity can satisfy the desire for physical immortality and triumph over the fear of death.

She did not suddenly start being disagreeable this afternoon, she was so good at it, she had evidently practised whatever are the scales and arpeggios of rudeness every day of her life.

The day was so delightful that I wished one could live slowly as one can play music slowly.

Mr. James Joyce is a great man who is entirely without taste.