Hors d'oeuvres have always a pathetic interest for me; they remind me of one's childhood that one goes through wondering what the next course is going to be like - and during the rest of the menu one wishes one had eaten more of the hors d'oeuvres.
Addresses are given to us to conceal our whereabouts.
Great Socialist statesmen aren't made, they're still-born.
A little inaccuracy sometimes saves a ton of explanation.
No one can be an unbeliever nowadays. The Christian Apologists have left one nothing to disbelieve.
You needn't tell me that a man who doesn't love oysters and asparagus and good wines has got a soul, or a stomach either. He's simply got the instinct for being unhappy highly developed.
