It is a peculiar hell, this world in which everyone is always ready for his close-up.
We all come into this world with our little egos equipped with individual horns. If we don’t blow them, who will?
The polite conversationalist, when interrupted by a monologue, smiles, and waits his turn, before resuming his own.
We talk not to say something, but to show something.
Where ideas compete freely, the prettiest win.
The more hands your opinions have passed through, the more likely you are to regard them as your own.
Knowing the answer does not oblige you to raise your hand.
Mute inglorious Miltons, flowers born to blush unseen and waste their sweetness on the desert air, are extinct, and I miss them.
We are what we fear to appear to be.