Life for young American college graduates is a festive affair. Free of having to support their families, they mostly have gay parties on rooftops where they reflect at length upon their quirky electronic childhoods and sometimes kiss each other on the lips and neck.

It is a capital insult in this country not to make love to a naked woman, even if she is related to you.

We are now part of this giant machine where every second we have to take out a device and contribute our thoughts and opinions.

I am born hungry. Ravenous. I want to eat the world, and I can never be satiated.

Michigan, with its delicious American name. How lucky one must be to live there.

Then I celebrated my Wall of Books. I counted the volumes on my twenty-foot-long modernist bookshelf to make sure none had been misplaced or used as kindling by my subtenant. “You’re my sacred ones,” I told the books. “No one but me still cares about you. But I’m going to keep you with me forever. And one day I’ll make you important again.” I thought about that terrible calumny of the new generation: that books smell.

Let's see if I can write about something other than my heart.