Fear, born of the stern matron Responsibility, sits on one's shoulders like some heavy imp of darkness, and one is preoccupied and, possibly, cantankerous.

The wives who are not deserted, but who have to feed and clothe and comfort and scold and advise, are the true objects of commiseration; wives whose existence is given over to a ceaseless vigil of cantankerous affection.

It is so much easier to tell intimate things in the dark.

There is nothing like an odor to stir memories.

People don't ever seem to realize that doing what's right, writes no guarantee against misfortune.

A young man must let his ideas grow, not be continually rooting them up to see how they are getting on.

The artist isn't particularly keen on getting a thing done, as you call it. He gets his pleasure out of doing it, playing with it, fooling with it, if you like. The mere completion of it is an incident.