Reading a great book causes jolts and frights.
New York loves itself in an unkind and fanatical way.
Learned researches lead to headaches, constipation, and befuddled quarreling.
Loving, not the beloved, is the joy of love. The beloved, knowing this, most resolutely declines to be grateful.
After Voltaire: envy is chained to the portico of the temple of glory and can neither enter nor leave.
Alone, I am satisfied with myself. With others, I am beset by troubling comparisons.