My mentors grow old and foolish. I am afraid.
To Jane Austen, every fool is a treasure trove.
The morose one refuses to smile even when he has just had his teeth cleaned.
Abyss-mongering makes professors and poets feel daring.
If beggars do not hate the rest of us, they are even more abject than I had imagined.
Not even self-love can always be counted on for support.