We often mistake the original part of ourselves for a weakness.
I reject all evidence that my fabulous beloved is an ordinary person who worries, watches TV, and has bouts of indigestion.
Writing about an idea frees me of it. Thinking about it is a circle of repetitions.
The realist lies for advantage. The fantasist lies to give his dreams a flavor of reality.
Death is just around the corner. If only it would stay there.
Self-pity dries up our sympathy for others.