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Romantics consider common sense vulgar.
The man in the street is always a stranger.
Seeing my malevolent face in the mirror, my benevolent soul shrinks back.
The passion for money is never fickle.
If modesty disappeared, so would exhibitionism.
My mind is led astray by every faint rustle.
Observe decorum, and it will open a path to morality.
Old age: I fall asleep during the funerals of my friends.
Stated clearly enough, an idea may cancel itself out.
The shades of respectability begin to close about the greying head.
Unlike the actual, the fictional explains itself.
The beloved is the ultimate fetish.
Why do we never expect dull people to be rascals?