Even when you self-destruct, you want to fail more, lose more, die more than others, stink more than others.
Out of some persistent sense of large-scale ruin, we kept inventing hope.
What we are reluctant to touch often seems the very fabric of our salvation.
Everything's a scandal. Dying's a scandal. But we all do it.
The cheesecake was smooth and lush, with the personality of a warm and well-to-do uncle who knows a hundred dirty jokes and will die of sexual exertions in the arms of his mistress.
Human existence had to have a deeper source than our own dank fluids. Dank or rank. There had to be a force behind it, a principal being who was and is and ever shall be.