Imagination has rules, but we can only guess what they are.

I wish you joy of your unhappiness, since you cling to it so.

Posterity--the forlorn child of nineteenth century optimism--grows ever harder to conceive.

Lechery is secretive, but must finally reveal itself to at least one.

I pursue pleasure, but stingily, suspiciously.

If you belong to the underclass, you are already guilty.

Staid middle age loves the hurricane passions of opera.