Without Privacy There Was No Point In

Fiction, I Believed, Was The Transmutation Of Experiential Dross Into Linguistic Gold. Fiction Meant Taking Up Whatever The World Had Abandoned By The Road And Making Something Beautiful Out Of It.

Depression Presents Itself As A Realism Regarding The Rottenness Of The World In General And The Rottenness Of Your Life In Particular.

Since Our Technology Is Really Just An Extension Of Ourselves, We Don’t Have To Have Contempt For Its Manipulability In The Way We Might With Actual People. It’s All One Big Endless Loop. We Like The Mirror And The Mirror Likes Us. To Friend A Person Is Merely To Include The Person In Our Private Hall Of Flattering Mirrors.

It Seems To Me Self-evident That If You Have A Life, Things Happen In It, And Certain Things Do Change; Certain Things End. People You Know Die.

I Look At My Father, Who Was In Many Ways An Unhappy Person, But Who, Not Long Before He Got Sick, Said That The Greatest Source Of Satisfaction In His Life Had Been Going To Work In The Company Of Other Workers.