Even the most fickle are faithful to a few bad habits.
Sloth, not ill-will, makes me unjust.
My self-absorption warms me; yours boils me.
A small boy puts his hand on the wall, and looks down intently as he wriggles his toes. The birth of thought?
The dignified catastrophes of tragedy bear little resemblance to the slow ruin inflicted by life.
There is a line between a definite maybe and an indefinite yes.