As I review my life, I feel I must have missed the point, either then or now.
Work saves us from melancholy. Pleasure exposes us to it.
People often are unsure whether or not they are in love, but they generally know whether or not they are having sex.
The self-righteous rule out the possibility that they are what has gone wrong.
In New York, one must collapse to be indolent.
If "there is no harm in asking," why guilt and fear when we do so?