The tranquility of my room partakes too much of Forest Lawn.
The aftermath of joy is not usually more joy.
Strict rules of evidence would destroy psychoanalysis and literary criticism.
When poets go off the boil, they sound like bumble bees; when critics do, they sound like sewing machines.
No matter how close thought sticks to the actual, it follows its own rules.
The aphorism: a platitude that swerves, or slides all the way around.