Please, God, Send Me Something To Adore.

I Have No Useful Theories About Love And Marriage.

Maybe It’s Not, In The End, The Virtues Of Others That So Wrenches Our Hearts As It Is The Sense Of Almost Unbearably Poignant Recognition When We See Them At Their Most Base, In Their Sorrow And Gluttony And Foolishness. You Need The Virtues, Too—some Sort Of Virtues—but We Don’t Care About Emma Bovary Or Anna Karenina Or Raskolnikov Because They’re Good. We Care About Them Because They’re Not Admirable, Because They’re Us, And Because Great Writers Have Forgiven Them For It.

Any Other Vexations To Report?" He Asks. "i Love The Word 'vexations.'" "it's The 'x.' Nice To Jump Off A 'v' And Bite Into An 'x' Like That." "just The Usual Ones," She Says. "how Was The Weekend?" "vexing. Not Really, I Just Wanted To Say It. You?

All Over China, Parents Tell Their Children To Stop Complaining And To Finish Their Quadratic Equations And Trigonometric Functions Because There Are Sixty-five Million American Kids Going To Bed With No Math At All.

We’d Hoped For Love Of A Different Kind, Love That Knew And Forgave Our Human Frailty But Did Not Miniaturize Our Grander Ideas Of Ourselves.