I am sick to death of cleverness. Everybody is clever nowadays. - Oscar Wilde

The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?

I don't at all like knowing what people say of me behind my back. It makes me far too conceited.

One should absorb the colour of life, but one should never remember its details. Details are always vulgar.