Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?

Satire is a lesson, parody is a game.

At eight, he had once told his mother that he wanted to paint air.

Humbert was perfectly capable of intercourse with Eve, but it was Lilith he longed for.

Down you go, but all the while you feel suspended and buoyed as you somersault in slow motion like a somnolent tumbler pigeon, and sprawl supine on the eiderdown of the air, or lazily turn to embrace your pillow, enjoying every last instant of soft, deep, death-padded life, with the earth's green see-saw now above, now below, and the voluptuous crucifixion, as you stretch yourself in the growing rush, in the nearing swish, and then your loved body's obliteration in the Lap of the Lord.

Sleep is the most moronic fraternity in the world, with the heaviest dues and the crudest rituals. It is a mental torture I find debasing... I simply cannot get used to the nightly betrayal of reason, humanity, genius.

It is a short walk from the hallelujah to the hoot.