Life Is Fits And Starts, Mostly Fits.

Nothing Remains But Desire, And Desire Comes Howling Down Elysian Fields Like A Mistral.

The Present Age Is Demented. It Is Possessed By A Sense Of Dislocation, A Loss Of Personal Identity, An Alternating Sentimentality And Rage Which, In An Individual Patient, Could Be Characterized As Dementia.

Hatred Strikes Me As One Of The Few Signs Of Life Remaining In The World. This Is Another Thing About The World Which Is Upsidedown: All The Friendly And Likable People Seem Dead To Me; Only The Haters Seem Alive.

It Is Not A Bad Thing To Settle For The Little Way, Not The Big Search For The Big Happiness But The Sad Little Happiness Of Drinks And Kisses, A Good Little Car And A Warm Deep Thigh.

Where There Is Chance Of Gain, There Is Also Chance Of Loss. Whenever One Courts Great Happiness, One Also Risks Malaise.