To what will love not stoop!

Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.

Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.

And what I have, what I am, is enough, was always enough for me, and as far as my dear little sweet little future is concerned I have no qualms, I have a good time coming.

To be an artist is to fail, as no other dare fail, that failure is his world and the shrink from desertion, art and craft, good housekeeping, living.

Dying for dark — and the darker the Worse. Strange.

I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.