Romantic Love is only an Illusion. A story one makes up in One's Mind about Another Person.
The Socratic demonstration of the ultimate unity of tragic and comic drama is forever lost. But the proof is in the art of Chekhov.
When the modern scholar cites from a classic text, the quotation seems to burn a hole in his own drab page.
Pornographers subvert this last, vital privacy; they do our imagining for us. They take away the words that were of the night and shout them over the roof-tops, making them hollow.
We are still waging Peloponnesian wars. Our control of the material world and our positive science have grown fantastically. But our very achievements turn against us, making politics more random and wars more bestial.
Life proceeds amid an incessant network of signals.
Functions of technical information, historic record, analytic argument, which are integral and obvious to Dante's use of verse are now almost completely a part of the 'prosaic'.
The system is in place whereby if an umpire cries off, or both as was the case here, those umpires are to be replaced.
You drive me insane June. You're the scariest, most clever, bravest person I know, and sometimes I can't catch my breath because I'm trying so hard to keep up. There will never be another like you. You realize that, don't you? Billions of people will come and go in this world, but there will never be another like you.
The world outside had its own rules, and those rules were not human.
The Jewish question is really the most serious of our problems.