In Our Ideals We Unwittingly Reveal Our

We Spend Our Time Envying People Whom We Wouldn't Wish To Be.

To Be Adult Is To Be Alone.

The Books One Has Written In The Past Have Two Surprises In Store: One Couldn't Write Them Again, And Wouldn't Want To.

My Pessimism Extends To The Point Of Even Suspecting The Sincerity Of Other Pessimists.

Prerequisite For Rereadability In Books: That They Be Forgettable.