At first, the new owner pretends he never looked at the living room floor.

That's why I write, because life never works except in retrospect. You can't control life, at least you can control your version.

Disaster is a natural part of my evolution toward tragedy and dissolution.

Rant would tell people: 'You're a different human being to everybody you meet.

We've taken the world apart but we have no idea what to do with the pieces.

Now is the autumn of our ennui.

Most people would never admit it, but they'd been bitching since they were born. As soon as their head popped out into that bright delivery-room light, nothing had been right. Nothing had been as comfortable or felt so good. Just the effort it took to keep your stupid physical body alive, just finding food and cooking it and dishwashing, the keeping warm and bathing and sleeping, the walking and bowel movements and ingrown hairs, it was all getting to be too much work.