Luxury (n.) looks for a way to be hungry even after it is full, to stuff the stomach rather than fill it, and to revive a thirst already slaked.
Luxury (n.) fakes or surpasses nature, and shows it by making the incredible ordinary: a fish caught under the table and killed at dinner rather than for it.
Luxury (n.) has been lethargic for ages and has only now woken up to realize it was being cheated of something so fine — the colors of a dying fish.
Luxury (n.) cannot enjoy anything unless it is expensive, so it priced even water: the one thing in which the rich could not outdo the poorest.
Luxury (n.) is an unconquerable evil that develops from soft and pliant to hard and enduring, until it overcooks the heart itself.
Luxury (n.) gets worse gradually, enticed onward by wealth itself, until what were female toiletries are standard male equipment, even for soldiers.
Luxury (n.) teaches only to crave greater luxury — a man may bury the earth under marble floors so as not only to own riches but to tread on them.
Luxury (n.) did what the Alps could not: one winter in Campania took the vigour out of Hannibal — he conquered with his weapons and was conquered by his vices.
Luxury (n.) has condemned us to weakness: nature gave us legs to do our own walking and eyes to do our own seeing, and we have ceased to be able to do what we long declined to do.
Luxury (n.) makes a man exist only to carve a fat bird properly — and the slave who learns it from necessity is less pitiable than the master who shows it off for pleasure.
Luxury (n.) makes us feel like paupers in any bathroom whose walls are not ablaze with mirrors and marble.
Luxury (n.) is what calls for toil and effort; the essentials are acquired with little bother.
Luxury (n.) first hankered after the inessential, then after the harmful, and finally handed the mind over as the body’s slave.
Luxury (n.) forces lilies in midwinter and plants orchards on rooftops, desiring everything against nature until it breaks with her altogether.
Luxury (n.) needs an audience: no one wears purple for no man's eyes or uses gold plate when he dines alone — make us cease to display and we will cease to crave.
Luxury (n.) and the man tired of it are often merely not on speaking terms: it has upset his stomach, and he will soon be reconciled.
Luxury (n.) spreads in a fixed order: first personal appearance, then furniture, then houses, then the dinner-table — and at last it hunts for novelties in speech.
Luxury (n.) seeks how to prolong hunger after repletion, how to stuff the stomach rather than fill it, how to rouse a thirst the first drink already satisfied.
Luxury (n.) is the vice fraught with destruction even for mighty dynasties.
Luxury (n.) leaves nothing untasted for the years to come, so that a man clings not to life but to the fish-market he has already exhausted.