There is something terribly morbid in the modern sympathy with pain. One should sympathise with the colour, the beauty, the joy of life. The less said about life's sores the better.
Create yourself. Be yourself your poem.
The world hates Individualism.
Yesterday evening Mrs. Arundel insisted on my going to the window, and looking at the glorious sky, as she called it. Of course I had to look at it. She is one of those absurdly pretty Philistines to whom one can deny nothing. And what was it? It was simply a very second-rate Turner, a Turner of a bad period.
Colonel. Can she read and write? Peter. Ay, that she can, sir. Colonel. Then she is a dangerous woman.
Your cynicism is simply a pose.