It Infuriates Me To Be Wrong When

Outside Of Paris, There Is No Hope For The Cultured.

All Right-minded People Adore It; And Anyone Who Is Able To Live Without It Is Unworthy To Draw Breathe

The Maturing Process Of Becoming A Writer Is Akin To That Of A Harlot. First You Do It For Love, Then For A Few Friends, And Finally Only For Money.

We Are All Mortals, And Each Is For Himself.

The True Touchstone Of Wit Is The Impromptu.