Do you realize how angry you sound?” must be one of the most infuriating questions in the language.

It is always self-defeating to pretend to the style of a generation younger than your own; it simply erases your own experience in history.

There follows a little obscenity here, a dash of philosophy there, considerable whining overall, and a modern satirical novel is born.

Nothing defines the quality of life in a community more clearly than people who regard themselves, or whom the consensus chooses to regard, as mentally unwell.

The radical intelligence in the moderate position is the only place where the center holds. Or so it seems.

Moral self-infatuation has its own corruptions, after all. With time, almost every other principle of the magazine acquired an ironic echo, a sort of cackling aftermath.

My capacity for having a good time exists. It surfaces, however, on odd occasions.