Silence is more profitable unto thee than abundance of speech.

The painter locks himself out of his own studio. And then has to break in like a thief.

There is truth in wine and children.

When men speak ill of thee$$$ live so as nobody may believe them.

Talking pictures are like putting lip rouge on the Venus de Milo.

We are two abysses - a well staring at the sky.

If there really is such a thing as turning in one's grave$$$ Shakespeare must get a lot of exercise.

A generation of the unteachable is hanging upon us like a necklace of corpses.

I will always be the virgin-prostitute$$$ the perverse angel$$$ the two-faced sinister and saintly woman.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.