It is a fundamental human desire to hear one’s own eulogy.
Identity, that spectator of what he calls himself,
That net and aggregate of energies in transient combination.
Identity is partly inherited, and partly chosen, and not at all declared.
We are to the immense wealth that swaddles us and the conditions that produced it as a fish to water — scarcely aware of it and shortly dead without it.
To live is to close one’s options.
The ideal aristocrat resembles the dogs of which he is so fond — steadfast, loyal, wedded to tradition, and just a bit thick.
There is almost nothing that being prefaced with “social” cannot spoil.
If everyone were morally gray, there would remain the question of shade.
Never let Possibly Better be the enemy of Perfectly Adequate.
It is possible, indeed necessary, to be both disgusted and amused.
The punishment for a hit is to watch your aging audience stifle their boredom while they wait for you to play it, at every show, until you quit or die.