I get up and I have coffee and I speak to no man and I go to my desk.
Balance is compromise. Of the muscles.
In a family, the same spoken lines come in over and over. Intimacy exhausts.
The young show the genetic process, the old merely die of it.
Every art is a church without communicants, presided over by a parish of the respectable. An artist is born kneeling; he fights to stand. A critic, by nature of the judgment seat, is born sitting.
Sociology, the guilty science, functions best by alarm.