Human sympathy has its limits, and we were contented to let all their tragic arguments fade with the city lights behind. - F. Scott Fitzgerald

It was no affair for the watch: Satan was at large tonight and Satan seemed to be he who appeared dimly in front, heel over gate, knee over fence. Moreover, the adversary was obviously travelling near home or at least in that section of London consecrated to his coarser whims, for the street narrowed like a road in a picture and the houses bent over further and further, cooping in natural ambushes suitable for murder and its histrionic sister, sudden death.

He had possessed the arrogance of a tall member of a short race, with no obligation save to be tall.

I may turn out an intellectual, but I'll never write anything but mediocre poetry.