My love of pleasure seems to be the only consistent side of my character. Is it because I have not read enough?

A Strange melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give the grave and beautiful name of sorrow. The idea of sorrow has always appealed to me but now I am almost ashamed of it's complete egoism. I have known boredom, regret, and occasionally remorse, but never sorrow. Today it envelops me like a silken web, enervating and soft, and sets me apart from everybody else.

When you make a decision to write according to a set schedule and really stick to it, you find yourself writing very fast. At least I do.

I had a strong desire to write and some free time.

My love of pleasure seems to be the only consistent side of my character. Is it because I have not read enough?

If you treat life well, life is usually good to you. And I love life. There's a long-standing affair between us.

Money may not buy happiness, but I'd rather cry in a Jaguar than on a bus.