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.

Without self awareness we are as babies in the cradles.

How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger?

For pleasure has no relish unless we share it.

... the random talk of people who have no chance of immortality and thus can speak their minds out has a setting, often, of lights, streets, houses, human beings, beautiful or grotesque, which will weave itself into the moment for ever.

As I grow old I hate the writing of letters more and more, and like getting them better and better.

It seems as if an age of genius must be succeeded by an age of endeavour; riot and extravagance by cleanliness and hard work.