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Fate weaves the darkness, which is perhaps why she weaves so badly.

Max Beerbohm

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Max Beerbohm
Age: 83 †
Born: 1872
Born: August 24
Died: 1956
Died: May 20
Caricaturist
Comedian
Drawer
Essayist
Illustrator
Journalist
Literary Critic
Novelist
Painter
Poet
Watercolorist
Writer
London
England
Sir Max Beerbohm
Sir Henry Maximilian Beerbohm
Sir Beerbohm
Henry Maximilian Beerbohm
Weaves
Badly
Fate
Darkness
Perhaps

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But to die of laughter--this, too, seems to me a great euthanasia.
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A man's work is rather the needful supplement to himself than the outcome of it.
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I may be old fashioned, but I am right.
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The dullard's envy of brilliant men is always assuaged by the suspicion that they will come to a bad end.
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In every human being one or the other of these two instincts is predominant: the active or positive instinct to offer hospitality, the negative or passive instinct to accept it. And either of these instincts is so significant of character that one might as well say that mankind is divisible into two great classes: hosts and guests.
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Women who love the same man have a kind of bitter freemasonry.
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It seems to be a law of nature that no man, unless he has some obvious physical deformity, ever is loth to sit for his portrait.
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Only the insane take themselves seriously.
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I need no dictionary of quotations to remind me that the eyes are the windows of the soul.
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The Socratic manner is not a game at which two can play.
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The delicate balance between modesty and conceit is popularity.
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Not philosophy, after all, not humanity, just sheer joyous power of song, is the primal thing in poetry.
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Somehow, our sense of justice never turns in its sleep till long after the sense of injustice in others has been thoroughly aroused.
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The loveliest face in all the world will not please you if you see it suddenly eye to eye, at a distance of half an inch from your own.
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Zuleika, on a desert island, would have spent most of her time in looking for a man's footprint.
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A quiet city is a contradiction in terms. It is a thing uncanny, spectral.
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For people who like that kind of thing, this is the kind of thing they like.
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Have you noticed ... there is never any third act in a nightmare? They bring you to a climax of terror and then leave you there. They are the work of poor dramatists.
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The past is a work of art, free of irrelevancies and loose ends.
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No fine work can be done without concentration and self-sacrifice and toil and doubt.
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