We don't know when our name came into being or how some distant ancestor acquired it. We don't understand our name at all, we don't know its history and yet we bear it with exalted fidelity, we merge with it, we like it, we are ridiculously proud of it as if we had thought it up ourselves in a moment of brilliant inspiration.

Metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with.

Flirting is a promise of sexual intercourse without a guarantee.

When we ignore the body, we are more easily victimized by it.

Perhaps the reason we are unable to love is that we yearn to be loved, that is, we demand something - love - from our partner instead of delivering ourselves up to him demand-free and asking for nothing but his company.

Hate traps us by binding us too tightly to our adversary.

The border between good and evil is terribly fuzzy.