[Ideas] are like shadows — substantial enough until we try to grasp…

A hen is only an egg's way of making another egg.

We can see nothing face to face; our utmost seeing is but a fumbling of blind finger-ends in an overcrowded pocket.

Stowed away in a Montreal lumber room The Discobolus standeth and turneth his face to the wall; Dusty, cobweb-covered, maimed and set at naught, Beauty crieth in an attic and no man regardeth: O God! O Montreal!

The Discobolus is put here because he is vulgar — He has neither vest nor pants with which to cover his limbs.

Life is like playing a violin solo in public and learning the instrument as one goes on.

The man who lets himself be bored is even more contemptible than the bore.