Stated clearly enough, an idea may cancel itself out.
The horse stares at its captor, barely remembering the free kicks of youth.
The man of sensibility is too busy talking about his feelings to have time for good deeds.
The sage belongs to the same obsolete repertory as the virtuous maiden and the enlightened monarch.
Thinking about the universe has now been handed over to specialists. The rest of us merely read about it.
Totem poles and wooden masks no longer suggest tribal villages but fashionable drawing rooms in New York and Paris.
Unlike the actual, the fictional explains itself.
We are more tied to our faults than to our virtues.
Why do we never expect dull people to be rascals?
Without civilization, we would not turn into animals, but vegetables.
Young men preen. Old men scheme.
Young poets bewail the passing of love; old poets, the passing of time. There is surprisingly little difference.
If I can’t serve as a role model, let me serve as a warning.
When you can’t figure out what to do, it’s time for a nap.
Every book teaches a lesson, even if the lesson is only that one has chosen the wrong book.
Writing about an idea frees me of it. Thinking about it is a circle of repetitions.
Sometimes I discover I have changed my mind because I have forgotten what I used to think.
Don’t sacrifice yourself for me. I will not be grateful.
Drugs bring us to to the gates of paradise, then keep us from entering.
Dancers dance through their pain I shrink from mine.