As a dream comes true, it falls flat.

Young poets bewail the passing of love; old poets, the passing of time. There is surprisingly little difference.

Victorian sorrow: the stars are winking in the sky, but not for us.

My father liked to moralize, and so do I. But he was in earnest, while I am embarrassed and pretend that I am merely being witty.

Paradise endangered: garden snakes and mice are appearing in the shadowy corners of Dutch Old Master paintings.

Self-criticism expands the opportunities for discourse and eliminates the need for an adversary.

At retirement, switching from "I must" to "I want" leaves me puzzled and uneasy.