It's hard / Keeping up with the avant-garde.

Ah, snug lie those that slumber Beneath Conviction's roof. Their floors are sturdy lumber, Their windows weatherproof. But I sleep cold forever And cold sleep all my kind, For I was born to shiver In the draft from an open mind.

If childhood is still a state, it is now chiefly a state of confusion.

The knowingness of little girls, is hidden underneath their curls.

Scratch any father, you find / Someone chock-full of qualms and romantic terrors, / Believing change is a threat.

History must always be taken with a grain of salt. It is, after all, not a science but an art.

Women are the fulfilled sex. Through our children we are able to produce our own immortality, so we lack that divine restlessness which sends men charging off in pursuit of fortune or fame or an imagined Utopia. That is why we number so few geniuses among us. The wholesome oyster wears no pearl, the healthy whale no ambergris, and as long as we can keep on adding to the race, we harbor a sort of health within ourselves.