Pleasure is often spoiled by describing it.
The man of genius is he and he alone who finds such joy in his art that he will work at it come hell or high water.
God's only excuse is that he does not exist.
Every true passion thinks only of itself.
I no longer find such pleasure in that preeminently good society, of which I was once so fond. It seems to me that beneath a cloak of clever talk it proscribes all energy, all originality. If you are not a copy, people accuse you of being ill-mannered.
The worst of prison life, he thought, was not being able to close his door.