Nice Things Are Nicer Than Nasty Ones.

When That Ineffable Compound Of Depression, Sadness (these Two Are Not The Same), Anxiety, Self-hatred, Sense Of Failure And Fear For The Future Begins To Steal Over You, Start Telling Yourself That What You Have Is A Hangover. You Are Not Sickening For Anything, You Have Not Suffered A Minor Brain Lesion, You Are Not All That Bad At Your Job, Your Family And Friends Are Not Leagued In A Conspiracy Of Barely Maintained Silence About What A S**t You Are, You Have Not Come At Last To See Life As It Really Is And There Is No Use Crying Over Spilt Milk.

Now And Then I Become Conscious Of Having The Reputation Of Being One Of The Great Drinkers, If Not One Of The Great Drunks, Of Our Time.

Doing What You Wanted To Do Was The Only Training, And The Only Preliminary, Needed For Doing More Of What You Wanted To Do.

Sex Stops When You Pull Up Your Pants, Love Never Lets You Go.

Feeling A Tremendous Rakehell, And Not Liking Myself Much For It, And Feeling Rather A Good Chap For Not Liking Myself Much For It, And Not Liking Myself At All For Feeling Rather A Good Chap.