Novels soften the iron law of manifestation--that we are confirmed only if we manifest ourselves--by showing us and so allowing us to confirm the unmanifested interiors of their characters.
Just as there is "puppy love," there is "puppy self-love."
Social events require sponsors. Some boast they introduced bride and groom; others covet the office of gossip to the divorce.
We ask our lesser leaders to serve us, ask our greater to serve an ideal that ethical inspiration may carry us out of ourselves.
The needy rich are always with us.
To find a bargain is to experience grace.
The oldest technology: one man is beating another.
Consisting of sample questions and sample answers, "interviews" are colloquies between third persons.
Going away to school meant finding a compass and losing a world.
When the lion dies, rabbits roar.
The range of human sympathy is limited by the disgusting and the ridiculous, these guardians who prevent us--until dotage--from falling back into infancy.
Wonder is the womb where value grows.
The signal human activity is creating value. This the compromised, the corrupt, the humiliated, inauthentic, accursed spirit cannot do--and the innocent does.
The ability to create value originates in a mother murmuring its name to it over and over, instilling in her infant its soul, its unique and inexhaustible worth, its ability to create value.
Making every different thing yield up its tiny quiddity of sameness, monomania is boring, monomania is inventive, monomania is powerful.
The greatest conspiracy of all operates in plain sight: the conspiracy to make the world safe for mediocrity.
I suffer if I say too soon, "Now it's my time to receive." We suffer only in our stinginess.
She: And now you'll never be able to hurt me again! He: How can you say such a thing to me!
A woman will examine a man for the marks of a mother on him, for where a mother went a woman may follow.
Conspiracy theories are stupidity's intellectual elegance.
Age cannot make more stale or repetition perfect its imperturbable dullness: the true cliche is born, not made.
One is never too old to be a child and receive a blessing, or too young to give one.
A formulaic phrase any substitute for which (no matter how original and especially if original) is immediately suspect: I love you.
When you give up your child you become your child. If you are single, you have married yourself.
The inimitable: To do it at all, you have to do it all.
Nagging always works--too late.
The most common and therefore unrecognized narcotic is fatigue.
Lawyer, critic, shrink--the glamor of the kibitzing professions: Always out in the storm. Never get wet.
The master's jest becomes the acolytes' law, a king's whim his people's despair.
Pascal has it there would be no evil if men had the strength to remain in their rooms--nor, he neglected to add, any good.
The weakest hands seize the heaviest ax.
The man who's imagined himself king is as rare as the woman who hasn't deeply pondered her queenship.
Old teachers are given to a rusing, obscene charm because, like courtesans, they've tried for too many years to interest students who didn't interest them.
Consumption destroys, and consumers are driven by despair to consume more and more to heap its void with more excrements of void.
When both give and both receive, neither need envy the other.
Keep my own counsel. Never let them know what I'm thinking. Be strong, like a stone. Filled with your self-satisfied palaver and understanding only palaver, do you dare gainsay his animal cunning?
Tender awe. Tenderness in awe of itself. What this touches it calls "sacred."
A large fact of social existence doesn't speak its name because it doesn't know its name: humorlessness.
Le vice bourgeois: social self-flagellation.
All those associated with the king spoke as executors of the royal will. Ministers and their underlings were no longer persons in their own right but servants who paraded the livery of the House of Bush.
Each lie is terrible, but, worse, taken together, they are truth's new standard. Who now believes anything that doesn't ring true like a lie.
Great enterprises entail great risk. She believes in God, Nature, and cosmetics.
No state can be governed without law and order and graft.
Telling makes what was accidental and alien deliberate and therefore one's own.
Paperwork, unlike the crafts, has no scale.
The moment each one thought, "I raise my hand against him because he's just asking for it"--was the moment that ended the tyrant's reign, when his overreaching betrayed his weakness.
She was more indispensable to his stream of feeling than he was, and he would more easily have suffered his destruction than her loss.
The artist who believes he need please no one but himself will succeed beyond his wildest dream.
The facets, the conception, do the work: they focus the light. What remains is to be clear.
The knight may overlook no evil as too trivial, or poor in pedigree--or his sword will fail when the "worthwhile" evil arrives.
Every vitality creates its immortality, however briefly.
No greater rage than that of the son of a disgraced father, who has denied him his heritage of manhood while polluting it with death.
Art is solving problems--then finding better problems, better solutions.
It is a very small step from manipulating oneself to please others to manipulating others to please oneself.
Poets would be unconscionably immodest if they weren't liars.
Something for nothing, windfall, freebie, free booze, especially: firewater in my veins. I celebrate my luck, my luck celebrates me. My eyes feast on tender messages from the Universe, which this very instant loves me madly.
Big man. Little woman. Here's the truck. Here's the truck driver.
"Don't call me, I'll call you," says the vulture who will be sure to ring when you can no longer answer.
Ideologues are sentimentalists. They love the names of things.
The realm of error is infinite; the ingenuities of folly are creative beyond prediction.
It is a question whether one prays in order to act well or acts well to pray the better.
The rich don't feel called on to render accounts. The world's demands never reach them entrenched behind their bulwark of bucks.
Fill his palm full enough, the beggar will show you the back of his hand. Thwap! That will teach you to think him a beggar!
The prophet is a satirist who violates the compact exempting company present.
Pomposity is so often endearing because we see in it a child puffed up to play an adult, though not so well as we do.
Poetry is not a craft, but poets are craftsmen, possessing the craft-attitude: detached, they want to make it good--but what this "it" is and how to get to it they don't exactly know.
"Sentimentality" adds self-love to sentiment.
Every renunciation renounces a distraction, gains an increment of concentration.
Warning! This mind is posted. Raise your head in the jungle of his attention and you will be shot dead.
Speed is its own milieu.
Our feeling that justice belongs to an objective order in which our judgments participate. Is there any other objectivity we know so intimately?
In our video age, no self-respecting witch will fly without first perming her broom.
Professionals value only the opinions of their peers.
Much of what passes for "thought" is simply cerebration in the presence of a topic.
However deep its source, passion flows so swiftly because it flows in a familiar channel, and carries us along so swiftly we fail to notice the channel.
True, there is much self-love in passion, since passion stirs up everything, surface wave and muddy bottom.
Why must we die? So stories can be told of us.
The child believes parents can be used without being used up.
Hypocrite: "Hypocrite manque!"
Those in position to evoke our sympathy and fail to, earn our antipathy.
I sacrifice myself here in order to reassemble myself there.
Conveyor belts, wheels, pulleys, lathes, millers, routers, gears, grindstones, drill presses, resistances, projections, introjections, regressions, reaction formations, sublimations, fixations--all busily processing "traumas" into "symptoms" and "symptoms" back into "traumas": Freud's Unconscious was a factory floor in the Age of Industry.
"Eloquence" belongs to public speech. Where intimate speech is eloquent--even in a tete-a-tete--other faces and other ears crowd the private place.
Lear's Fool sharpened outrage. Our comedian Fools make everything the one laughing matter. And we laugh, we can't help it, and are, in our laughter, Fools' fools.
The precocious child grows more astonishing every day. Look, eighty years old and his eyes, how bright they are!
Unlike enmity, competition requires cooperation. And this absence of a collaborator adds to the painfulness of hatred. Hatred is a game played alone.
"Go ahead, you can always get divorced." So, to her daughter who asked her blessing, she offered--free of damning expletives or dire prophecy--her wan curse.
Mystery of the hero in whom are united exemplary courage and uncontrollable fury.
However she moves, she is caught in the amber mucilage of his gaze whose evenness mesmerizes her. "He is," she says, "serious."
Pillow talk, with its slow, musical musing aloud, is the true conversing couples miss in their daily, agenda-driven jousting.
Unlike bad faith, candor is lighthearted.
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|Date:||Jun 22, 2015|
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