One could do with a longer year - so much to do, so little done, alas.

The superior thing ... was to be late. Lateness showed that serene contempt for the illusion we call time which is so necessary to ensure the respect of others and oneself. Only the servile are punctual.

The impulse to ask questions is among the more primitive human lusts.

I can think of few things more disastrous than starting a new correspondence with any one. Letters are a burden indeed ... they seem often the last straw that breaks the back ... you should see the piles of those that I must answer that litter and weight my writing table.

Nearly all novels are too long.

Human passions against eternal laws -- that is the everlasting conflict.

Nothing, perhaps, is strange, once you have accepted life itself, the great strange business which includes all lesser strangeness.