Home again, I can groan, scratch, and talk to myself.
The grand style is available now only in old poems, museums, and parodies.
Style disdains comfort and is always ready to sacrifice virtue.
If you have no power, talk about your influence. If you have power, talk about the constraints that hem you in.
Lawyers may reason powerfully, but power settles most issues.
The party out of office becomes the articulate one.
My self-absorption warms me; yours boils me.
I am the center of the world, but the control panel seems to be somewhere else.
Errors are more numerous than truths, but fortunately too divided among themselves to take power.
Arrogance frowns; pride smiles.
Snarls and sobs show that a love affair is getting serious.
Matter-of-fact descriptions make the improbable seem real.
Posterity – the forlorn child of nineteenth century optimism – grows ever harder to conceive.
Gossip is dying out because fewer and fewer people care to talk about anything besides themselves.
Ladies and gentlemen are supposed to be looked after by others, like children and pets.
The Lady: a fluty voice, sensible shoes, a melancholy sense of living by rules few still remember.
Mars and Venus are at it again. This time, Hephaestus is standing by with a private detective, a photographer, and a lawyer.
The Olympian gods cannot have grand passions because they cannot die.
Man invented the gods. Then the gods went off on their own, but not far.
When science drove the gods out of nature, they took refuge in poetry and the porticos of civic buildings.