Those who follow where their genitals lead them often wind up in tedious company.

Writers tell more truths, and more lies, than most.

The past is always waiting to entangle and deflect us.

Hope and despair ignore one another's cries.

Alone, I am satisfied with myself. With others, I am beset by troubling comparisons.

In an aphorism, aptness counts for more than truth.

Mortality: not acquittal but a series of postponements is what we hope for.