I don't believe in aging. I believe in forever altering one's aspect to the sun.

But nothing is so strange when one is in love (and what was this except being in love?) as the complete indifference of other people.

Only the dead know Brooklyn.

To persons of spirit like ourselves the only happy marriage is that which is based on a firm foundation of almost incessant quarrelling.

A lesser moustache$$$ under the impact of that quick$$$ agonised expulsion of breath$$$ would have worked loose at the roots.

One of the drawbacks to life is that it contains moments when one is compelled to tell the truth.

It has been well said that an author who expects results from a first novel is in a position similar to that of a man who drops a rose petal down the Grand Canyon of Arizona and listens for the echo.

Her pupils were at once her salvation and her despair. They gave her the means of supporting life$$$ but they made life hardly worth supporting.

Woman is the unfathomable$$$ incalculable mystery$$$ the problem that we men can never hope to solve.

No one so dislikes being punished unjustly as the person who might have been punished justly on scores of previous occasions$$$ if he had only been found out.