He gave the impression that he believed in things. We did too-it was just that we wanted to believe in our own things, rather than what had been decided for us. Hence what we thought of as our cleansing scepticism.
Cheer up! Death is round the corner.
Is there anything more plausible than a second hand? And yet it takes only the smallest pleasure or pain to teach us time’s malleability. Some emotions speed it up, others slow it down; occasionally, it seems to go missing–until the eventual point when it really does go missing, never to return.
Had he been naive, or overambitious? Both, probably. In life, you might be a bohemian and an adventurer, but you also sought a pattern, an arrangement to help you through, even if — even as — you kicked against it.
It seemed to us philosophically self-evident that suicide was every free person’s right: a logical act when faced with illness or senility; a heroic one when faced with torture or the avoidable deaths of others; a glamourous one in the fury of dissappointed love (see: Great Literature).
This ought to have given him a whole storetank of existential rage, but somehow it didn’t;
The way, the truth and the life. You go on your way through life telling the truth.
Insofar as I liked doing things by myself, it was partly for the pleasure of telling her about them afterwards.
Necessary in the nineteenth century for the contraction of syphilis, without which no one could claim genius.
….in this country shadings of class resist time longer than differentials in age