Hatred strikes me as one of the few signs of life remaining in the world. This is another thing about the world which is upsidedown: all the friendly and likable people seem dead to me; only the haters seem alive.
Small disconnected facts, if you take note of them, have a way of becoming connected.
Bourbon does for me what the piece of cake did for Proust.
Since grief only aggravates your loss, grieve not for what is past.
Lucky is the man who does not secretly believe that every possibility is open to him.
Maybe there are times when an honest hatred serves us better than love corrupted by sentimentality, meretriciousness, sententiousness, cuteness.