The folly of mistaking a paradox for a discovery, a metaphor for a proof, a torrent of verbiage for a spring of capital truths, and oneself for an oracle, is inborn in us.
At times I think and at times I am.
An artist never really finishes his work, he merely abandons it.
What others think of us would be of little moment did it not when known so deeply tinge what we think of ourselves.
Love is being stupid together.
That which has always been accepted by everyone, everywhere, is almost certain to be false.