Reserve (n.) is rewarding — it gets what it strives for: perhaps no one thinks about my conduct but me, and that not even with a second party.
Reserve (n.) is silence suspending the duty to tell the truth for a higher end — pure form, as fit for good as for evil; even Christ told his disciples there was more he could not yet say, for they could not bear it.
Reserve (n.) is the inverse of acting: the actor's art is seeming deeply moved when untroubled; the reserved man's art is seeming untroubled when deeply moved — if he is not moved, his art equals zero.
Reserve (n.) speaks a language only in silence — or like a language that puts four or five consonants before a vowel; immediacy speaks easily, like a language rich in vowels.
Reserve (n.) at its most abstract has no content: the reserved man can tell with ease what made him reserved, but cannot tell what makes him reserved — it is the condensed anticipation of the religious subjectivity, healed only religiously.
Reserve (n.) makes a dangerous husband: the man with an unrevealable secret binds himself to a woman who sees the shadow pictures on the wall — and is perhaps the most dangerous temptation to women.
Reserve (n.) can be a pact with the good: in a great soul — Brutus, Prince Hal — it is in truth an expansiveness, and none is nobler than one inclosed in the womb of a great idea.