With each passing year I find the argument that “no one could possibly be that stupid” less persuasive.
The pleasure in having people admire your work lasts until you see what else they like.
Progress, n. The gradually increasing belief in the stupidity of one’s ancestors.
Now and then, in support of a cause, someone exhorts me so ardently, so passionately, so articulately, that I know in my gut, without consulting the facts, that he is wrong.
Life is exactly like high school, and not one bit like college.
We all have imaginary friends, who are generally real people.
Language is viscous, it resists: one thinks in words as one swims in water.
The personal is rarely political, but the political is nearly always personal.
We are exhorted to ask cui bono?, yet cui malo? is often the more penetrating question.
Why is not half so troublesome a question as So What.