The basic stimulus to the intelligence is doubt, a feeling that the meaning of an experience is not self-evident.

I sit in one of the dives On Fifty-Second Street Uncertain and afraid As the clever hopes expire Of a low dishonest decade: Waves of anger and fear Circulate over the bright And darkened lands of the earth, Obsessing our private lives; The unmentiona

Murder is commoner among cooks than among members of any other profession

O for doors to be open and an invite with gilded edges / To dine with Lord Lobcock and Count Asthma.

It takes little talent to see what lies under one's nose, a good deal to know in what direction to point that organ.

We all have these places where shy humiliations gambol on sunny afternoons.