America is a vast conspiracy to make you happy.

Nothing feels worse than other people's good times.

Atrocity is truly emperor; All things that thrive are slaves of cruel Creation.

There is no such thing as static happiness. Happiness is a mixed thing, a thing compounded of sacrifices, and losses, and betrayals.

The throat: how strange, that there is not more erotic emphasis upon it. For here, through this compound pulsing pillar, our life makes its leap into spirit, and in the other direction gulps down what it needs of the material world.

We are each of us like our little blue planet, hung in black space, upheld by nothing but our mutual reassurances, our loving lies.

My mother didn't raise me to be a critic, but I seem to have become one anyway.