I wish I was better at art. I love some of the great artists of the 19th century and, compared to them, I just feel I lack this technique that they had. They have so much skill.
A book that furnishes no quotations is no book - it is a plaything.
There are two reasons for drinking wine. . . when you are thirsty, to cure it; the other, when you are not thirsty, to prevent it. . . prevention is better than cure.
The juice of the grape is the liquid quintessence of concentrated sunbeams.
. . . where the Greeks had modesty, we have cant; where they had poetry, we have cant; where they had patriotism, we have cant; where they had anything that exalts, delights, or adorns humanity, we have nothing but cant, cant, cant.
The waste of plenty is the resource of scarcity.
Clouds on clouds, in volumes driven, curtain round the vault of heaven.
It seems all "protection" has to be monitored, considered, weighed and justified - I am suggesting we do that (but it's something Mary Shelley (and Gertrude Stein) also suggest). "Torch Song," the book's final section, looks at an arson committed by someone hired to protect the wilderness from fires, a catastrophic failure of protection!
I hated school. . . I freaking hated it. The fact is that it revolved around something you didn't have access to. If you weren't on the football team, if you were in the band, you were a leper. When people say those were the best years of our lives, I want to scream.
People have interesting things to say and you're only going to learn from different people's experience and knowledge.
The wise man, the true friend, the finished character, we seek everywhere, and only find in fragments.