Maxims are sharp-edged half-truths.
Anxiety and lust are evicting the older passions.
Laughter scares off lust.
Saying "I feel guilty" is a mere form of words. Saying "I feel ashamed" is not.
Guilt stirs me, but only to self-pity.
Sensuality takes planning and work.
Self-inflicted misery smirks under its crown of thorns.
Unhappiness is too common to call for special measures.
Your vanity and my vanity will never be friends.
If you should ever acknowledge my existence, I plan to snub you.
If your nose is up in the air, you cannot see where you are going.
In middle age, going naked contributes little to public enjoyment.
A quiet well-behaved boy is likely to be both frightened and ambitious.
In new situations, I look carefully at appearances. In familiar ones, I glance.
One who can find lemons sweet and grapes sour is ready for Dame Fortune.
Think of the many different relations of form and content. E.g., the many pairs of trousers and what's in them.
Bored by safety, the lover grows jealous and exacting.
I am no longer in love, but I still have my jealousy.
In art, a dress is never just a dress; nor in life either.
Every representation, even of an orgy, is a sublimation.
Nostalgia paints a smile on the stony face of the past.
No chaos, no creation. Evidence: the kitchen at mealtime.
Pride sings and dances; humility sighs.
The psychiatrist's office: the only place I can be sure my story will be treated as sad, but interesting.
My father was a patriarch inside a matriarchy, but never knew it.
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