Hatred of the mother is familiar, but the mother's hatred still comes as a surprise.

The limits of prudence: one cannot jump out of a burning building gradually.

I love money, but will money ever love me in return?

I answered my father's demands for sympathy with silence.

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

In middle age, I practiced feeling old, but the real thing has been a rude surprise.

I know that I am very much like everybody else, but not really.