I Don't Believe In Heaven Or Anything.

One Thing About Great Art: It Made You Love People More, Forgive Them Their Petty Transgressions. It Worked In The Way That Religion Was Supposed To, If You Thought About It.

Not For The First Time In My Life, And Certainly Not For The Last, A Self-righteous Gloom Had Edged Out All Semblance Of Logic.

Unhappiness Really Meant Something Back Then. Now It's Just A Drag, Like A Cold Or Having No Money.

That’s The Thing With The Young These Days, Isn’t It? They Watch Too Many Happy Endings. Everything Has To Be Wrapped Up, With A Smile And A Tear And A Wave. Everyone Has Learned, Found Love, Seen The Error Of Their Ways, Discovered The Joys Of Monogamy, Or Fatherhood, Or Filial Duty, Or Life Itself. In My Day, People Got Shot At The End Of Films, After Learning Only That Life Is Hollow, Dismal, Brutish, And Short.

What Came First – The Music Or The Misery? Did I Listen To The Music Because I Was Miserable? Or Was I Miserable Because I Listened To The Music? Do All Those Records Turn You Into A Melancholy Person?