Most people sell their souls and live with a good conscience on the proceeds.

How many of our daydreams would darken into nightmares, were there a danger of their coming true.

An echo of music, a face in the street, the wafer of the new moon, a wanton thought - only in the iridescence of things the vagabond soul is happy.

I find a fascination, like the fascination for the moth of a star, in those who hold aloof and disdain me.

All reformers, however strict their social conscience, live in houses just as big as they can pay for.

Our names are labels, printed clearly on the bottled essence of our past behavior.

The indefatigable pursuit of an unattainable perfection, even though it consists in nothing more than the pounding of an old piano, is alone what gives meaning to our life on this unavailing star.

I like to walk down Bond Street, thinking of all the things I don't desire.

When we say we are certain so-and-so can't possibly have done it, what we mean is that we think he very likely did.

How awful to reflect that what people say of us is true.