Posterity--the forlorn child of nineteenth century optimism--grows ever harder to conceive.
I resist change even as I call for it.
The man of sensibility is too busy talking about his feelings to have time for good deeds.
A moment of eloquence enthralls us. An hour's worth leaves us stupefied.
Lack of reciprocity ruins friendships, but makes love affairs exciting for a time.
What lies behind appearance is usually another appearance.