We are all such good people, and do such horrid things.
We all come into this world with our little egos equipped with individual horns. If we don’t blow them, who will?
History is the events leading up to my life; biography is the events leading up to my death.
We are such accomplished liars because we get so much practice on ourselves.
We weigh nothing so judiciously as a compliment.
It is a sort of blessing, if you have no talent, to have no taste.
We praise in others what we wish to have noticed in ourselves.
Everyone is vain about his choice of what not to be vain about.
The most grievous insult is the affected modesty of the truly accomplished.
It is a peculiar hell, this world in which everyone is always ready for his close-up.
The polite conversationalist, when interrupted by a monologue, smiles, and waits his turn, before resuming his own.