An Improper Mind Is A Perpetual Feast.

Style Is A Magic Wand, And Turns Everything To Gold That It Touches.

What Joy Can The Years Bring Half So Sweet As The Unhappiness They've Taken Away?

But Why Wasn't I Born, Alas, In An Age Of Adjectives; Why Can One No Longer Write Of Silver-shedding Tears And Moon-tailed Peacocks, Of Eloquent Death, Of The Negro And Star-enameled Night?

This Nice And Subtle Happiness Of Reading, This Joy Not Chilled By Age, This Polite And Unpunished Vice, This Selfish, Serene Life-long Intoxication.

One's Own Vanities And Humiliations I Find A Delicious Subject For Conversation. Things Said Of Me Behind My Back I Don't Enjoy, And Don't Listen To Them.