As I criss-cross the city hurrying, I feel always the unchanging cold beneath the pavement.
Truth-telling frightens me. Lying confuses me.
Ideas about life organize perception; names of emotions organize sensations; rules of syntax organize thought. But pain comes on its own.
In bridge clubs and in councils of state, the passions are the same.
Comedy is hostile to profundity, and brings everything to the surface.
The self-righteous rule out the possibility that they are what has gone wrong.