In the great cities, winter glitters with art and feasting. But poetry, the country cousin, sees only the dearth of the fields.

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

When Medusa looks in the mirror, she sees the Lady of Sorrows.

Guilt agonizes over trifles, ignores habitual wrongdoing.

The winner gives up his chance to be a good sport.

Language is the friendliest of the things from which we cannot escape.

Alcohol postpones anxiety, then multiplies it.