It Appears That Every Man's Insomnia Is

This Is What I Think Now: That The Natural State Of The Sentient Adult Is A Qualified Unhappiness.

The Purpose Of A Work Of Fiction Is To Appeal To The Lingering After-effects In The Reader's Mind As Differing From, Say, The Purpose Of Oratory Or Philosophy Which Respectively Leave People In A Fighting Or Thoughtful Mood.

How Strange To Have Failed As A Social Creature—even Criminals Do Not Fail That Way—they Are The Law's "loyal Opposition," So To Speak. But The Insane Are Always Mere Guests On Earth, Eternal Strangers Carrying Around Broken Decalogues That They Cannot Read.

The Victor Belongs To The Spoils.

Sometimes I Don't Know Whether I'm Real Or Whether I'm A Character In One Of My Novels.