A sentimental aphorism is even more a surprise than a hard- boiled sonnet.
To be thoroughly modern, an aphorism should trail off vaguely rather than coming to a point.
By multiplying ironies, I evade commitments.
I feel affluent or not according to what part of town I am in.
Spirituality now wanders from sex to drugs to art to revolution to violence--whatever seems to promise deliverance from the quotidian.
Infallibility and invincible ignorance are the same thing.
Lechery is secretive, but must finally reveal itself to at least one.
Guilt agonizes over trifles, ignores habitual wrongdoing.
Tales of adultery are much improved by period costumes.
Asceticism and celibacy can conceal many incapacities.
Asceticism without religion is just another way of cultivating peculiar sensations.
Chastity is now treated as a sexual problem.
Cynicism has its own zealots.
Being enthusiastic settles nothing.
Amateurs believe their enthusiasm will suffice.
The sorrow of not being movie stars overwhelms millions.
Conscience is the moralized form of self-absorption.
Health can be squandered, but not stored up.
After a moment of shrinking back, we domesticate the grotesque.
I am often attracted to people with whom I could not hold a five minute conversation.
The modest youth somehow knows just what to do for the cameras.
The eros of advertising is lurid but not specific.
Theory now: concern for truth must not hobble our discussion.
For some, bottles of liquor gleam like the towers of Eldorado.
Drunks conjure an endless drama from their bottles.
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