I was once in love with books. Now they go their way and I go mine.

My taking a seat on the Council of the Fathers caused a desperate fluttering among my ghosts.

The interest in Wisdom is fading. Soon there will not be enough left to support the aphorism, even though it tries to amuse by half-mocking the Wisdom it propounds.

Loving, not the beloved, is the joy of love. The beloved, knowing this, most resolutely declines to be grateful.

It is hard to tell truth, and hard not to.

The supposed unhappiness of the rich is always a cheerful topic of conversation.

I am often attracted to people with whom I could not hold a five minute conversation.