Friendship requires a leap, not of faith but of regard.
We are capitalism made flesh.
Never before, I suspect, have so many people been so rich to so little purpose.
Our desires are never wholly transparent, even to ourselves.
Books, like lives, are always unfinished even when they end, for to write is to struggle with contingency, to impose a certain false order upon the endless, and endlessly frustrating, nature of thought.
Ambition is ever tempered by experience. Otherwise, fortune makes fools of us all.