Without asceticism, self-indulgence would be insignificant.
In the great cities, winter glitters with art and feasting. But poetry, the country cousin, sees only the dearth of the fields.
Self-blame usually has an undertone of self-congratulation.
The etiquette of romantic love is as elaborate as that surrounding the Emperor of China.
The desire to create literature leads to frights, grunts, and coy looks.
No chaos, no creation. Evidence: the kitchen at mealtime.