Writing is a refuge from unhappiness, but has its own sorrows.
I am only interested in money because everyone else is.
Intelligence in isolation turns to aimless marauding.
If I could do my life over, I would try to cleanse at least my pleasures of self-pity.
If I play hard to get, soon the phone stops ringing altogether.
Lying just for the fun of it is either art or pathology.