the history of melancholia includes all of us.

the tired sunsets and the tired people - it takes a lifetime to die and no time at all.

The writer has no responsibility other than to jack off in bed alone and write a good page.

Women: I liked the colors of their clothing; the way they walked; the cruelty in some faces; now and then the almost pure beauty in another face, totally and enchantingly female. They had it over us: they planned much better and were better organized. While men were watching professional football or drinking beer or bowling, they, the women, were thinking about us, concentrating, studying, deciding - whether to accept us, discard us, exchange us, kill us or whether simply to leave us. In the end it hardly mattered; no matter what they did, we ended up lonely and insane.

God knows I am not too hippy. Perhaps because I am too much around the hip and I fear fads for, like anybody else, I like something that tends to last.

and the color in my eyes has gone back into the sea.

The hangover was brutal but he didn't mind. It told him he had been somewhere else, someplace good.