He wasn't my type. At all. And yet there was something about him that made me want to be his type.

We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him.

And yet I adore him. I think he's quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible – and there is absolutely nobody like him.

He is ugly and sad... but he is all love.

He had a gift for saying unpleasant things in the most charming manner.

He's a son-of-a-bitch, but he's our son-of-a-bitch.

He's as weird as snake's suspenders but sweet as a stolen kiss, too.

He loves power. A terrible love.

What a glorious creature must he have been in the day of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin.

I hate the way he writes. I kind of love the way he lives, though.

It was a pity that with his great qualities, his unselfishness and honor, his intelligence and sensibility, he should be so unlovable.

He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary-looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No sir; I can make no hand of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment.

These bloody people. I can't bear that man. I mean, he's so awful, he really is.

He's a winner, he's a God damn sinner; when he dines I'm on the wrong side of the day.