The little suckings and smackings of the perversions are the sounds of joyous infancy.
Lonely people keep up a ceaseless flow of commentary on themselves.
Looking backward at what has been lost, I feel sad, then indifferent, and at last relieved.
Our vices are attempts to combine self-medication and enjoyment.
The right time to die is never exactly now.
Writing is a refuge from unhappiness, but has its own sorrows.