I've had an enduring appreciation of psychology.

I'm fortunate in being able to find great satisfaction in my work.

My wife and daughter have accused me of being too silent at breakfast but I don't want to talk when I don't have much to say.

For most of my life, I have wanted broad impact but now, at 72, I'm not so sure that's always my first priority.

Doubt is my boon companion, the faithful St. Bernard ever at my side. Whether writing essays or just going about daily life, I am constantly second-guessing myself. My mind is filled with 'yes, buts,' 'so whats?' and other skeptical rejoinders. I am forever monitoring myself for traces of folly, insensitivity, arrogance, false humility, cruelty, stupidity, immaturity and, guess what, I keep finding examples. Age has not made me wiser, except maybe in retrospect.

Hedonism can be a rational response to a difficult life.

I imagined a psychic pain growing inside him (myself) that demanded some physical outlet. Suicide must have been his attempt to give Pain a body, a representation, to put it outside himself. A need to convert inner torment into some outward tangible wound that all could see. It was almost as though suicide were a last-ditch effort at exorcism, in which the person sacrificed his life in order that the devil inside might die.