Do you realize that all great literature is all about what a bummer it is to be a human being? Isn't it such a relief to have somebody say that?

A lover's a liar, To himself he lies, The truthful are loveless, Like oysters their eyes!

Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I’ve said before, bugs in amber.

One might be led to suspect that there were all sorts of things going on in the Universe which he or she did not thoroughly understand.

Or they'll talk about fear, which we used to call politics- job politics, social politics, government politics.

As for myself: I had come to the conclusion that there was nothing sacred about myself or any human being, that we were all machines, doomed to collide and collide and collide. For want of anything better to do, we became fans of collisions. Sometimes I wrote well about collisions, which meant I was a writing machine in good repair. Sometimes I wrote badly, which meant I was a writing machine in bad repair. I no more harbored sacredness than did a Pontiac, a mousetrap, or a South Bend Lathe.

I urge you to please notice when you are happy.