The dead linger sometimes.
I asked her whether, like Marguerite de Navarre, she had their hearts embalmed and hung at her girdle.he told me she didn't, because none of them had had any hearts at all.
You come down here to console me. That is charming of you. You find me consoled, and you are furious. How like a sympathetic person!
"Being adored is a nuisance. Women treat us just as humanity treats its gods. They worship us, and are always bothering us to do something for them."
"I should have said that whatever they ask for they had first given to us," murmured the lad gravely. "They create love in our natures. They have a right to demand it back."
"I believe in the race," she cried.
"It represents the survival of the pushing."
"It has development."
"Decay fascinates me more."
"What of Art?" she asked.
"It is a malady."
"Love?"
"An illusion."
"Religion?"
"The fashionable substitute for Belief."
"You are a sceptic."
"Never! Scepticism is the beginning of Faith."
"What are you?"
"To define is to limit."
"Give me a clue."
"Threads snap. You would lose your way in the labyrinth."
I am tired of myself to-night. I should like to be somebody else.
I remember your saying once that there is a fatality about good resolutions—that they are always made too late. Mine certainly were.
One's days were too brief to take the burden of another's errors on one's shoulders.