If reason worked on alcoholics, there’d be no alcoholics.
I play chess on my iPhone, and indulge in a fond fantasy that my opponent isn’t a mind of digital code but Dad: It’s Dad’s attacks I repel; Dad’s defenses I dismantle; Dad’s king scurrying around the board to prolong the inevitable.
I come to my journal as a Catholick to a confessor.
How the consumers seethed to buy, buy, buy! Purebloods, it seemed, were a sponge of demand that sucked goods and services from every vendor, dinery, bar, shop, and nook.
The lie that happiness is about borrowing money you haven’t got to buy crap you don’t need,” says Ian. “The lie that we live in a democratic state. And the most weaselly lie of all, that there is no class war.
The nation-state is merely human nature inflated to monstrous proportions.
The cat looks at her and meows, Feed me, for I am beautiful. Orito.
For She’s a Squishy Marshmallow.
Grief’s a bastard, it really is – pardon my French. It makes everything else harder.
This is peace, if you think about it – machine-gun nests being used as picnic tables.
Without where I am from and who I am from, I am nothing, even if the glass is gone and conifers are growing through where the roof should be. All those wide-worlders in transit, all those misplaced, thrown-away people who know as little as they care about their roots – how do they do it? How do they know who they are?
My landlord is eating a blueberry-blooded Popsicle.
This, explained the angel, is hell. The people do not love each other. They only want to feed themselves.
When I’m in doubt – as I am now – I ask myself, ‘What would Carl Jung do?’ – and act accordingly.
Only one-tenth of what you write will make it into your manuscript, but when you knock on that tenth” – I rap my knuckles on the table – “you’ll hear oaken solidity, not sawdust and glue.
Is peace of mind the co-workability of your laws?
The rectum of Wybo Gerritszoon releases a hot fart of horror.
A book you finish reading is not the same book it was before you read it. Girls are the same, too, perhaps, in the morning.
Robert Frobisher mentions a comet-shaped birthmark between his shoulder blade and collarbone.
A cloud of critics, of compilers, of commentators darkened the face of learning, and the decline of genius was soon followed by the corruption of taste.