The artist in his teens who is happy is a charlatan. Life comes bursting in all around lis too suddenly, too crudely, too cruelly, for happiness.

There is nothing like an odor to stir memories.

Woman dwell always in the palace of unpalatable truth and never by any chance is there a magic talisman to save them from their destiny. Speech is their ultimate need. We men exist for them only in so far as we can be described.

There is nothing like a start, and being born, however pessimistic one may become in later years, is undeniably a start.

The worldly relations of men and women often form an equation that cancels out without warning when some insignificant factor has been added to either side.

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.

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