You can tell how poor someone feels by the number of times he references money in his conversation. - Nassim Nicholas Taleb

When a principle is strong and (you feel) imperative, everything you do to justify it or rationalize it makes it weaker. Everything.

The story of the “exquisite cadavers” is as follows. In the aftermath of the First World War, a collection of surrealist poets — which included André Breton, their pope, Paul Eluard, and others — got together in cafés and tried the following exercise (modern literary critics attribute the exercise to the depressed mood after the war and the need to escape reality). On a folded piece of paper, in turn, each one of them would write a predetermined part of a sentence, not knowing the others’ choice. The first would pick an adjective, the second a noun, the third a verb, the fourth an adjective, and the fifth a noun. The first publicized exercise of such random (and collective) arrangement produced the following poetic sentence: The exquisite cadavers shall drink the new wine. (Les cadavres exquis boiront le vin nouveau.) Impressive? It sounds even more poetic in the native French. Quite impressive poetry has been produced in such a manner, sometimes with the aid of a computer. But poetry has never been truly taken seriously outside of the beauty of its associations, whether they have been produced by the random ranting of one or more disorganized brains, or the more elaborate constructions of one conscious creator.

Injuries done to us by others tend to be acute; the self-inflicted ones tend to be chronic.