Women are an alien race set down among us.
Revolution is just one crowd taking power from another.
All those little congruences and arabesques you prepared with such delicate anticipatory pleasure are gobbled up as if by pigs at a pastry cart.
Fiction is nothing less than the subtlest instrument for self-examination and self-display that Mankind has invented yet.
The fact that we still live well cannot ease the feeling that we no longer live nobly.
Critics are like pigs at the pastry cart.