Dutch painting: daily life is enough.
Healthy vanity sweeps through life. Sickly vanity lies in bed.
Middle-aged adolescents are a libel on the real thing.
Flatter me, but delicately, please, for I am fastidious.
My mother's mild-eyed sadness looks at me from the eyes of those I love.
My mother wanted to shrink from my clinging, but did not.
My taking a seat on the Council of the Fathers caused a desperate fluttering among my ghosts.
If we knew enough, fortune would turn out to be nature.
When a modest man praises himself, people listen.
Excrement can never be culturally elaborated to the extent that nutriment can.
Machismo makes no provision for preparing lunch, doing the laundry, or minding the baby.
The horizon is more than a convention of landscape painting, less than truth.
Telescopes and binoculars endanger the ever-distant sublime.
Now defined as art, the totem has lost cult, taboo, and custom.
Our public monuments are memorials to the Enlightenment.
A Museum of fetishes would give special attention to the history of underwear.
Even the most abject have a sense of superiority based on powerful though undefined merits.
Wallace Stevens: the Platonist celebrates endless change, but with regret.
Scholarship can find little to say about the obvious.
Deconstruction glorifies the critic, humiliates the author, and makes the reader wonder why he bothered.
Deconstruction: peering suspiciously at the text, I wait for it to make a slip and betray itself.
Orgies are an early form of what will someday become sex by committee.
Bad faith likes discourse on friendship and loyalty.
Humor does not rescue us from unhappiness, but enables us to move back from it a little.
The novel avoids the sublime and seeks out the interesting.
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