A Good Title Should Be Like A

Bourbon Does For Me What The Piece Of Cake Did For Proust.

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.

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

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

The So-called Sexual Revolution Is Not, As Advertised, A Liberation Of Sexual Behavior But Rather Its Reversal. In Former Days, Even Under Victoria, Sexual Intercourse Was The Natural End And Culmination Of Heterosexual Relations. Now One Begins With Genital Overtures Instead Of A Handshake, Then Waits To See What Will Turn Up (e.g., Might Become Friends Later). Like Dogs Greeting Each Other Nose To Tail And Tail To Nose.