As a medievalist and as a disembodied intellect I am addicted to my own pseudo-sagacity.
Why "pseudo," you ask?
Because if you have known me long enough, you will already have experienced one of my little false gems of wisdom. They're what the Anglo-Saxons called maxims, though mine only sound learned. Example: after a sigh of weariness that something is taking so long, I will sometimes say to the sigher: "Patience is its own reward." Of course, patience is NOT its own reward (patience is a virtue, and virtue may be its own reward, but we're not talking algebra here) ... so whenever someone nods serenely at the seeming wisdom I've just imparted, I then say "You idiot! Patience may help you to get through long periods of emptiness, but it isn't going to reward you."
It's funny how if you pronounce almost anything in a grave tone, it will be taken as if it had Deep Import. Especially if you are a medievalist -- because, hey, we know arcane things.