Marriage Isn't A Tram. It Doesn't Have

Trains Induce Such Terrible Anxiety. They Image The Possibility Of Total And Irrevocable Failure. They Are Also Dirty, Rackety, Packed With Strangers, An Object Lesson In The Foul Contingency Of Life: The Talkative Fellow-traveller, The Possibility Of Children.

Yes, Of Course, There's Something Fishy About Describing People's Feelings. You Try Hard To Be Accurate, But As Soon As You Start To Define Such And Such A Feeling, Language Lets You Down. It's Really A Machine For Making Falsehoods. When We Really Speak The Truth, Words Are Insufficient. Almost Everything Except Things Like "pass The Gravy" Is A Lie Of A Sort. And That Being The Case, I Shall Shut Up. Oh, And... Pass The Gravy.

I Hate Solitude But I Am Afraid Of Intimacy. The Substance Of My Life Is A Private Conversation With Myself And To Turn It Into A Dialogue Would Be Equivalent To Self-destruction. The Company I Need Is The Company Which A Pub Or A Cafe Will Provide. I Have Never Wanted A Communion Of Souls.

Art Is The Final Cunning Of The Human Soul Which Would Rather Do Anything Than Face The Gods.

The Very Madness Of The Scheme Protects It.