In middle age, going naked contributes little to public enjoyment.

Position yourself well enough, and circumstances will do the rest.

In conversation, everyone sits in confident judgment on the world.

Outside literature, high-flown sentiments are merely exasperating.

I want to appear ordinary, but I have it understood that I am not.

A fastidious taste is best indoors, away from nature and the city.

Like other high subjects, the Law gives no ground to common sense.

Civilization creates discontents; barbarism creates quick endings.

A goldfish is reason enough for living, if someone needs a reason.

Politics inflame the passions in a way that few beloveds can match.

Most people regard getting their way as a matter of simple justice.

City people make most of the fuss about the charms of country life.

Of course I want to be good, but that may not be to your advantage.

Prudence does not save us, but shows us pictures of our destroyers.

An adolescent is both an impulsive child and a self-starting adult.

Mild brown eyes beckon me to the past, but memory provides no clue.

The extravagance of intellect outstrips the extravagance of desire.

When I try to portray to myself my heart's desire, nothing happens.

The shades of respectability begin to close about the greying head.

The smile of a politician is strong and friendly, but noncommittal.

Like an electric tea-kettle, pornography comes to a boil very fast.

The public is a hibernating bear, hard to awaken and fond of honey.

Victorian sorrow: the stars are winking in the sky, but not for us.

I am most drawn to writing when I have something else urgent to do.

If you are going to break a Law of Art, make the crime interesting.

Lonely people console themselves with self-absorption or curiosity.

First literature came to refer only to itself, the literary theory.

Well-behaved: he always speaks as if his mother might be listening.

Reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are.

Logic and fact keep interfering with the easy flow of conversation.

The most reliable pleasure afforded by theater is the intermission.

When I am bored with myself, I try to find someone to listen to me.

I was once in love with books. Now they go their way and I go mine.

Lonely people keep up a ceaseless flow of commentary on themselves.

In bridge clubs and in councils of state, the passions are the same.

Modern literature seduces with insults, riddles, and inside stories.

Pornography and cooking shows have created two new spectator sports.

The mind scolds the heart, which makes excuses and goes its own way.

Beware of wallflowers. They expect to have everything done for them.

The sacred is found boring by many who find the uncanny fascinating.

Preserving tradition has become a nice hobby, like stamp collecting.

Every few years something new breaks into the circle of my thoughts.

The young have stolen our youthfulness, and flaunt it without shame.

My strengths make me contemptuous. My weaknesses make me charitable.

Birth dates and bathroom scales tell more truth than I want to know.

Some subjects come up suddenly in our speech and cannot be silenced.

Profundity often goes past the issue to some deep but useless truth.

The villain may be good looking, but his smile is never quite right.

A sense of absurdity interferes with my efforts to appear venerable.

I would enjoy experiencing the hollowness of success at first- hand.

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