What should I do if my problems aren't all solved by the time I die?
More books have resulted from somebody's need to write than from anybody's need to read.
My problems aren't big but it doesn't necessarily take a big problem to kill me.
My first line of defense against reality is called sleep.
Love is a strange commodity, because you can't import it if you don't also export it.
Life may have no meaning. Or even worse, it may have a meaning of which I disapprove.