England always seems to me like a man swimming with his clothes on his head.
Kidd, turn off the light to spare my blushes.
She had her own way of doing all that she did, and this is the simplest description of a character which, although by no means without liberal motions, rarely succeeded in giving an impression of suavity.
Innocent and infinite are the pleasures of observation.
Oxford lends sweetness to labour and dignity to leisure.
To read between the lines was easier than to follow the text.
Experience was to be taken as showing that one might get a five-pound note as one got a light for a cigarette; but one had to check the friendly impulse to ask for it in the same way.
It doesn’t matter what you do in particular, so long as you have had your life.
I don’t care anything about reasons, but I know what I like.
She is like a revolving lighthouse; pitch darkness alternating with a dazzling brilliancy!
I’ve always expected the worst, and it’s always worse than I expected.
It is art that makes life, makes interest, makes importance.
One doesn’t defend one’s god: one’s god is in himself a defense.
The girl had a certain nobleness of imagination, which rendered her a good many services and played her a great many tricks.
The artist is present in every page of every book from which he sought so assiduously to eliminate himself.
My sole wish is to frustrate as utterly as possible the post-mortem exploiter.
In the long run an opinion often borrows credit from the forbearance of its patrons.
If the artist is necessarily sensitive, does that sensitiveness form in its essence a state constantly liable to shade off into the morbid? Does this liability, moreover, increase in proportion as the effort is great and the ambition intense?
Every good story is of course both a picture and an idea, and the more they are interfused the better.
Criticism talks a good deal of nonsense, but even its nonsense is a useful force. It keeps the question of art before the world, insists upon its importance.