Vulgarity is the garlic in the salad of charm.
Doing is overrated, and success undesirable, but the bitterness of failure even more so.
Sheep with a nasty side.
Like the bee its sting, the promiscuous leave behind them in each encounter something of themselves by which they are made to suffer.
Approaching forty, I had a singular dream in which I almost grasped the meaning and understood the nature of what it is that wastes in wasted time.
Like water, we are truest to our nature in repose.
Dining out is a vice, a dissipation of spirit punished by remorse. We eat, drink, and talk a little too much, abuse all our friends, belch out our literary preferences and are egged on by accomplices in the audience to acts of mental exhibitionism. Such evenings cannot fail to diminish those who take part in them. They end on Monkey Hill.
Our memories are card indexes consulted and then returned in disorder by authorities whom we do not control.
Life is a maze in which we take the wrong turning before we have learned to walk.
Happiness lies in the fulfillment of the spirit through the body.
A mutually fulfilled sexual union between two people is the rarest sensation which life can provide. But it is not quite real. It stops when the telephone rings. Such a passion can be kept at its early strength only by adding to it either more and more unhappiness (jealousy, separation, doubt, renunciation), or more and more artificiality (drink, technique, stage-illusions). Whoever has missed this has never lived, who lives for it alone is but partly alive.
Hate is crystallized fear, fear's dividend, fear objectivized. We hate what we fear and so where hate is, fear will be lurking.
There is no pain equal to that which two lovers can inflict on one another. This should be made clear to all who contemplate such a union. The avoidance of this pain is the beginning of wisdom, for it is strong enough to contaminate the rest of our lives.
M is for Marx And clashing of classes And movement of masses And massing of asses.
The true work of art is the one which the seventh wave of genius throws up the beach where the undertow of time cannot drag it back.
There is no pain equal to that which two lovers can inflict on one another.
The American language is in a state of flux based upon survival of the unfittest.
Youth is a period of missed opportunities.
The detective story itself is in a dilemma. It is a vein which is in danger of being worked out, the demand is constant, the powers of supply variable, and the reader, with each one he absorbs, grows a little more sophisticated and harder to please, while the novelist, after each one he writes, becomes a little more exhausted.
Melancholy and remorse form the deep leaden keel which enables us to sail into the wind of reality; we run aground sooner than the flat-bottomed pleasure-lovers but we venture out in weather that would sink them and we choose our direction.
It is only in the country that we can get to know a person or a book.
The headmistress was an able instructress in French and history and we learned with her as fast as fear could teach us.
Beneath a mask of selfish tranquility nothing exists except bitterness and boredom. I am one of those whom suffering has made empty and frivolous: each night in my dreams I pull the scab off a wound; each day, vacuous and habit-ridden, I help it re-form.
Optimism and self-pity are the positive and negative poles of modern cowardice.
A great writer created a world of his own and his readers are proud to live in it. A lesser writer may entice them in for a moment, but soon he will watch them filing out.
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