When you strike at a king, you must kill him.
Nothing is really so poor and melancholy as art that is interested in itself and not in its subject.
An artist is a dreamer consenting to dream of the actual world.
Slang is a language that rolls up its sleeves, spits on its hands and goes to work.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
I have lost friends, some by death… others through sheer inability to cross the street.
Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.