I Like Reality. It Tastes Like Bread.

We Poison Our Lives With Fear Of Burglary And Shipwreck, And, Ask Anyone, The House Is Never Burgled, And The Ship Never Goes Down.

Life Is Very Nice, But It Lacks Form. It's The Aim Of Art To Give It Some.

What Fun It Would Be To Be Poor, As Long As One Was Excessively Poor! Anything In Excess Is Most Exhilarating

Listen, My Friend, There Are Two Races Of Beings. The Masses Teeming And Happy - Common Clay, If You Like - Eating, Breeding, Working, Counting Their Pennies; People Who Just Live; Ordinary People; People You Can't Imagine Dead. And Then There Are The Others - The Noble Ones, The Heroes. The Ones You Can Quite Well Imagine Lying Shot, Pale And Tragic; One Minute Triumphant With A Guard Of Honor, And The Next Being Marched Away Between Two Gendarmes

Believe Me; All Evil Comes From The Old. They Grow Fat On Ideas And Young Men Die Of Them.