Self-pity” Is Just Sadness, I Think, In

And Then There Were The Wallflowers Who Had Recognized For Years That The Thing Was Hopeless, Who Had Found In That Information A Kind Of Calm. They No Longer Tried, With A Bright And Desperate Effort, To Sustain A Conversation With Somebody's Brother, Somebody's Usher, Somebody's Roommate, Somebody's Roommate's Usher's Brother... The Category Of Wallflower Who Had Given Up On All This Was Very Quiet, Not Indifferent, Only Quiet. And She Always Brought A Book.

It Is Always Self-defeating To Pretend To The Style Of A Generation Younger Than Your Own; It Simply Erases Your Own Experience In History.

My Dislike Has No Consequences. It Accrues Only In My Mind—like Preserves On A Shelf Or Guns Zeroing In, And Never Firing.

Bored People, Unless They Sleep A Lot, Are Cruel.

No One Ever Confides A Secret To One Person Only. No One Destroys All Copies Of A Document.