It Makes People Nervous For One To

I Sometimes Think Novelists Write About Sex In Order To Avoid Boring Themselves To Death.

Maybe There Are Times When An Honest Hatred Serves Us Better Than Love Corrupted By Sentimentality, Meretriciousness, Sententiousness, Cuteness.

One Of The Peculiar Ironies Of Being A Human Self In The Cosmos: A Stranger Approaching You In The Street Will In A Second's Glance See You Whole, Size You Up, Place You In A Way In Which You Cannot And Never Will, Even Though You Have Spent A Lifetime With Yourself, Live In The Century Of The Self, And Therefore Ought To Know Yourself Best Of All.

A Good Title Should Be Like A Good Metaphor. It Should Intrigue Without Being Too Baffling Or Too Obvious.

The Mystery Lies In The Here And Now. The Mystery Is: What Is One To Do With Oneself? As You Get Older You Begin To Realize The Trick Time Is Playing, And That Unless You Do Something About It, The Passage Of Time Is Nothing But The Encroachment Of The Horrible Banality Of The Past On The Pure Future. The Past Devours The Future Like A Tape Recorder, Converting Pure Possibility Into Banality. The Present Is The Tape Head, The Mouth Of Time. Then Where Is The Mystery And Why Bother Kicking Through The Ashes? Because There Is A Clue In The Past.