For the eye has this strange property: it rests only on beauty.

Better was it to go unknown and leave behind you an arch, then to burn like a meteor and leave no dust.

Our apparitions, the things you know us by, are simply childish. Beneath it is all dark, it is all spreading, it is unfathomably deep; but now and again we rise to the surface and that is what you see us by.

Friendships, even the best of them, are frail things. One drifts apart.

For once the disease of reading has laid upon the system it weakens so that it falls an easy prey to that other scourge which dwells in the ink pot and festers in the quill. The wretch takes to writing.

These moments of escape are not to be despised. They come too seldom.

Her life was a tissue of vanity and deceit.