He was described as the literary leader of the age, but had never written a book that sold more than three thousand copies.
In the eyes of his contemporaries, he was a man who had committed the one unforgivable sin; he was proud of his wealth.
When a man thinks, there is a spot of fire alive in his mind—and it's proper that he should have the burning point of a cigarette as his one expression.
Every form of happiness if one, every desire is driven by the same motor--by our love for a single value, for the highest potentiality of our own existence--and every achievement is an expression of it.
But if I were given a choice - of all centuries - I'd select last the curse of being born in this one. And perhaps, if I weren't curious, I'd choose never to be born at all.
We'll meet again. We'll meet when years have passed, and years make such a difference, don't they?